


Creativity in Triplicate

by TelepathJeneral



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M, being yourself while being other people is harder than it looks, designations congruent with things - Freeform, let me bring this thing back to life, recovery's a fun thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-24 09:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12010191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelepathJeneral/pseuds/TelepathJeneral
Summary: Newton Geiszler and Hermann Gottlieb live normal lives. The world has been saved, and no one's sticking their arms into vats of kaiju parts anymore. But that doesn't mean everything's always okay.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As noted, this work was heavily inspired by "Designations Congruent with Things", a fic by cleanwhiteroom. It isn't necessary to have read DCWT in order to understand this fic, but it's an incredible fanfic that deserves your attention.

Newton Geiszler still wears long sleeves.

Hermann has accepted this, although the stab of concern is much more quickly conflated with self-righteous justification because _he was right about the tattoos, after all_ , and, well, Newton isn’t wrong about how nice that feeling can be. The fact that Newton is suffering for reasons other than the ones Hermann had predicted is less satisfying, but there is progress. Newton has improved exponentially since the both of them had been run ragged by neurologic interfaces and bureaucratic interferences, and they now exist comfortably in a new network of their own making.

The Breach had been closed, thanks in no small part to the effort of their drifting. Yes, he and Newton, the entire K-Sci division of the PPDC at the critical moment, had drifted, interfaced with a kaiju brain, and _seen_ the answer to the puzzle before them. Newton had developed an appreciation for rationalism. And Hermann had discovered a newfound appreciation for the guitar. And both of them, in quick bursts of memory, could remember what it was like to crush the Wall beneath their claws and watch humanity scatter.

Hermann had extracted both of them to San Francisco, injecting them into academia even as Newton tried to recover from the probing inquiry of the PPDC. They’d recovered. Found jobs. Disassociated and mis-associated more than once, waking up with the distinct feeling of being in the wrong body, and they’d committed to each other in every way that mattered. They were the only two humans in the world that had drifted with the kaiju hivemind. And they were also the only two (well, if you didn’t count the dead and the trustworthy Mako Mori/Raleigh Becket duo) who knew that Hermann had participated in the drift. Hermann had hidden the worst of Newton’s breakdown from the world, and Newton had protected Hermann from the bureaucratic aftermath of the inquiries. They’d survived. Better than survived, they’d found a new little niche in which to grow and thrive, an academic community with which to engage. The tension which had characterized their interactions for years had finally resolved into a true relationship, which then allowed for romantic overtures, which had led to the acquisition of a formal marriage license and the purchase of two plain rings. Newton now e-mails Mako Mori once a week, keeping track of her fame, and Hermann keeps track of both Newton and himself in quiet reflection to ensure that the neural disconnects never get too bad.

The world at large still shakes from the effect of the kaiju. Cities are still being rebuilt, populations are just beginning to recover, and though Hermann doesn’t want to think about it, the Wall must eventually come down. He and Newton have hardly discussed it, though Hermann is aware that Newton still visits it. He doesn’t ask whether these visits are self-prompted or driven by other impulses, and he doesn’t want to unpack his reasoning behind that, and so he leaves the issue. Newton gets free rides on occasion from his friend-acquaintance dubbed Carl, and Hermann picks him up on occasion in his Porsche, and they maintain an easy equilibrium. They’re too much mixed up with each other to be truly volatile anymore, and whatever idiosyncrasies they might have, they actually manage to live together without having to clean their workspaces more than once a week.

A definite improvement from the Shatterdome.

Hermann does not claim to read Newton’s mind when Newton isn’t expecting it, despite whatever SPECTER effect and EPIC rapport may be perceived on random occasions by Newton (spillover from a knockoff drift interface, he claims, and the possible influence of kaiju hivemind engineering), and it is instead his acute perception of social cues, his knowledge of Newton himself, and his newfound knowledge of human behaviorism (gleaned from Newton also, though you’d think someone with that level of human understanding would know how to act appropriately more often) that informs him that something is _different_ when Newton comes home.

They don’t ride together to work every day, though it is common—and Hermann recognizes the need for space. Thus he is positioned by the sink in the kitchen of their apartment, sorting through assorted produce, when Newton makes his grand return, and the air quality sharpens just a little. Hermann jerks his head up, glancing over to where Newton is busy fussing with his shoes (what fine motor control!) by the door. A moment later, Newton looks up to make eye contact with Hermann.

“I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

“I wasn’t thinking that you were.” _Besides_ , thinks Hermann, _very little of what you do is actually stupid, even if it requires the processing power of three neural networks to fully understand the point_.

Newton launches into his explanation, not even correcting his lack of formal greeting. “I’m just thinking—have you seen the notices on campus? There’s not many by the science buildings, but you know that campus is huge anyway. And the guitar circles always gather in the theaters, or the music buildings, so I have to trek over there if I want to listen—“

Unbidden, Hermann gets a vision of anthills and pools of sugar water, the prediction of his own- _Newton’s_ memory indicating the paths and movements of each ant in turn. It always comes back to simple biology, at least when you have a biologist’s brain.

“So, y’know, I go. But there’s always a lot of activity, and they’re opening a new exhibition next month. An art exhibition, of a bunch of pieces. Like I said, I don’t go over there that often, but this one looks interesting, and it might be nice to have something different from the norm. We’re getting into a routine, in case you hadn’t noticed, and that’s usually fine! But, y’know, I definitely think we should mix it up, and—“ Newton takes a deep breath, straightening. “I think we should go.”

“You think we should go in a professional sense? Or you think we should go as….” Hermann finds himself trailing off, watching Newton approach. “Partners?”

“Um. Well, if you wanted to make it a date, I suppose I could work that. And I could even find the guitar kids later.” Newton offers a sudden smile, prompting Hermann to flush for no apparent reason. “I could find a nice classic instrument, get someone to tune it for me, get acquainted with it in just that way you like, listen to you trying not to sing along to _[LHC](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9DY8-zmNl4)_ —“

“You were saying?” Hermann redirects sharply, annoyed at his own recognition of the fact that he _remembers_ the lyrics to _LHC_ perfectly, and equally annoyed that he partially wants Newton to play guitar for him.

“Well, it’s not—I didn’t really have a ‘protocol’ for going to this thing, it’s just an exhibit. An exhibition. Art, man, you know? It doesn’t need reason, does it?”

Hermann pulls himself up to answer, when a sudden thought interrupts his procedure and he turns to study Newton more closely. “It may not need a protocol for our attendance, but will we need a protocol when someone recognizes us and asks why we’ve come?”

“What? Hermann, I just said—“

 _Just tell me your reason, you stubborn dolt_. “You’ve told me before not to hedge, and now I understand. It’s unbecoming. It’s not common for the science professors to wander through undergraduate exhibitions, and I know this isn’t your strong suit, Newton, but people might ask us about it. What should I tell them?”

“It’s not undergrads. It’s the—well, it’s mainly one professor, but she does a lot of work with other departments, and she apparently has pieces from people all along the Walls. Asia and America. It’s sort of a collaboration, an exploration—“

“It’s a Pacific Rim collection.” Hermann doesn’t quite have all the pieces, but he’s getting an uncomfortable impression of the shape of Newton’s discussion. He doesn’t bother to access Newton’s own perspective—it’s old enough by now that he’s not sure it will help. “And you want to look at it.”

“Can’t I take an interest in art? I’m the artistic one, remember? That’s my _thing_ , or it was, and you should know about it too, the guitars, and the songs, and—“ Newton tenses, about to turn towards the window, and Hermann quickly drops the lettuce in the sink to grab Newton by both arms. This dance is familiar to them. The dissociation passes quickly. “I’m okay. It’s okay.”

“Your point, Newton.”

“I want to look at it, and I want you to be there.”

Hermann stares up at his colleague-cum-life partner, trying by sheer force of will to pry open Newton’s reasoning about this. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

“Thanks.” His tension disappearing in relief, Newton leans into Hermann’s grip, smiling at last to reach up and shove away Hermann’s hands. “You really shouldn’t worry so much.”

Hermann just stares at him, unbelieving, while Newton begins to ramble about his day and make some attempt at setting a table. Only Newton, in the face of repeated evidence, could blithely comment on Hermann’s level of concern and dismiss it as trivial. After _everything_.

Only Newton.

“You know, if you’d just let me buy a guitar, I could play for you _here_. And you wouldn’t have to pretend you’re ‘picking me up’ when you want to come to the get-togethers and watch. And you wouldn’t have to mingle with undergrads.”

Hermann doesn’t dignify the comment with a response, and instead returns to his produce-sorting, mentally preparing the forthcoming meal while still processing Newton’s entrance. The Wall still separates them from the wide expanse of the sea, and Newton has (privately) expressed his gratitude for its presence. Hermann can’t pretend to understand his drives, but Hermann himself doesn’t particularly want to test what might happen if the beach regains its endless skyline. The kaiju had been born for the water, and the faintest twinges of muscle memory could always push one or the other of them into an alternate neural pathway.

That’s why the two of them were together now, wasn’t it? Hermann’s concern for himself and for Newton, and Newton’s certainty that he’d trip into a kaiju’s memories and want to start destroying things, and their mutual ability to correct the other when the wrong memories began surfacing.

 _You’re making a great mental map here, man_. That isn’t Hermann, not quite—it’s a version of Newton, but distorted through time and memory and the drift interface. _Why don’t you start concatenating, arranging it like a bunch of lines on a chalkboard, and see if that makes you feel better?_

 _When did you get so sarcastic?_   Hermann thinks back, wincing as his sarcasm is thrown back at him. Still, the mental-Newton’s suggestion isn’t a bad idea. A more dedicated evaluation of Newton’s behavior, and comparison with other data, could lead Hermann to a working conclusion.

And then, tomorrow, he can do his own research about this “exhibition”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "LHC" is a song by the fictional band "The Superconducting Supercolliders", fronted by the fictional Newton Geiszler. Credit belongs to friendking and allyspock on tumblr for producing the song, and all other music associated with the Supercos.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermann stares at the poster in front of him, its deep blues and soft greens putting him dangerously in mind of weeks of staring at Newton’s specimens. He’s sure they’ve done their homework, consulted all the footage and reports on the kaiju themselves—they’re artists, after all. They would want to stay true to their source material.

Because, despite Newton’s vague reassurances, the exhibition was not merely a Pacific Rim collection. It went above and beyond mere “intercontinental creative collaboration”. Newton had apparently wheedled him into attending a _kaiju memorial_.

Perhaps that was a bit of melodrama. _You are the rationalist, Hermann, now act like it._ No, the formal concept was an “exploration of memory about the kaiju attacks”, as if humanity hadn’t been exploring the idea of the kaiju for years already. He’d watched the late night shows, the comedy specials, the merchandising and the adulation and the joking. He’d seen Newton’s tattoos.

 _Now that’s just not fair. I wasn’t doing that for nerd cred, Hermann, that was_ art.

Hermann silently acknowledges the Newton in his head once more, trying to understand why the Newton in his life would want to go to this installment. It’s not as if Newton was a renowned art lover. True, the man had become a counter-cultural media sensation by virtue of _surviving_ a kaiju attack, but Newton had always eschewed the mainstream.

 _Oh, that’s not a fun feeling._ Hermann has to lean forward as a sudden shock pierces his brain, the desire to _please_ crashing against Newton’s life lived in disregard of higher authority. It’s not total cognitive dissonance—Hermann has seen too much and changed too much for him to contest Newton too strongly on this point—but it still hurts, and he focuses on breathing for a long moment before remembering where he is.

Behind him, wandering along the campus paths, undergrads compare their schedules and bemoan their juvenile problems.

Straightening again, Hermann studies the exhibition poster again, trying to concentrate on the point of the event itself instead of critiquing their poster design. Newton had specified that it wasn’t undergrads presenting this event, which meant that the organizer had some sort of vision and goal. But here? To run an exhibition “exploring” the kaiju, in San Francisco? Where the Wall still stood, truncating the sunset every evening, and where Newton still refused to roll up his sleeves to see the kaiju on his skin, and where the beach still sat full of radioactive waste after humanity’s failures?

No, Hermann could not see any way how this—any of this—could be a good idea.

Why would Newton want to subject himself to this? Why would Newton want to walk into a place where they would be, if not outright praising the kaiju, then at least _appreciating_ the kaiju to an uncomfortable extent. After all this time, after Newton’s crises of self regarding himself and the kaiju and the things he’d done to them, why would Newton want to thrust himself back into that mental space?

Was Newton _trying_ to trigger a little adventure down alternate neural pathways?

That would explain why he would want Hermann there. But they would hardly be alone. And even if Newton felt like having a cognitive crisis, Hermann could hardly condone this sort of experimentation on the grounds of the university at which they were both currently employed. There would be students there, for God’s sake! Even if Newton was accepted as a professor and researcher that happened to have some odd tendencies, Hermann had basically negotiated a position for Newton which relied on the other man’s mental stability. The basic premise of their employment is partially the fact that they weren’t volatile. It isn’t a guarantee that Newton’s potential for cognitive confusion would immediately mean their exclusion from the Berkley faculty, but Hermann doesn’t particularly want to test the patience of his superiors too much.

Hermann glances at the base of the poster to confirm the relevant details, then locates the name of the lead professor in the corner of the poster. A bit of quick maneuvering with his phone allows him to find her office number, and he starts walking in the direction of the art building before pausing to consider his course of action.

Is he really just going to wander into the art department and interrogate this “Liz” about her choice of exhibition?

No, no, of course not. It would be unfair to drag her into this mess. He’d ask Newton first.

Considering he’d done all this extracurricular research during the day, however, he still has set hours to finish in the lab. He isn’t about to drift into irresponsibility simply because Newton was being difficult.

Then again, that had been the very definition of their working relationship for the past decade.

And so, instead of heading back to his office in the math department, Hermann makes his way through Berkley’s quaint winding sidewalks to enter the life sciences building, ascending the stairs with growing irritation before locating Newton’s lab.

There’s students inside, apparently in various stage of holding equipment or talking excitedly in a corner, and Hermann has to repress a smile as he notes Newton seemingly torn between two such groups. The man hardly seems any older than his own students, and in truth, he may only be a year or two older than some of them. Still, he has a weariness around his eyes that tears Hermann apart, and Hermann chooses to watch instead of intervene as Newton combines the groups and redirects their attention to another ongoing (apparently chemical) process.

It's several minutes before Newton appears to notice Hermann’s arrival, and Hermann tenses as Newton grins at him. He knew this was a mistake, wandering into the lab like this, and now the students will be quietly smiling as they turn their backs on the two of them, but Newton doesn’t seem to care. Newton is busy clapping a hand on Hermann’s shoulder, adjusting his glasses with his other hand while trying to read Hermann’s mind.

“Did you need something?”

“Have you spoken with Doctor Elizabeth Manchester?” Hermann doesn’t mean for this question to be his introduction, but it’s less inflammatory than “What are you _thinking_ , Newton?”. Newton apparently isn’t expecting this line of thinking at all, and he releases Hermann in order to fold his arms.

“Should I have?”

“No, I was simply wondering. You’re interested in her exhibition, after all. And it’s not unusual for you to pursue the people who interest you.”

“You flatter me, I’m sure, but I haven’t talked to Doctor Liz. Maybe she’ll be at the exhibition, hm? Would be silly if she wasn’t. Artists and their ‘involvement’, am I right?” Newton looks back to his students, taking in their general posture with a nod. “That’s all you wanted to ask?”

Hermann stares at him, feeling an uncomfortable burden settle between his shoulder blades. His own concerns, he could bear well enough, but Newton isn’t explaining himself. But Newton doesn’t have to explain himself. Newton does what he wants, in his own time, and doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and so all Hermann can do is try to minimize the impact, contain the damage—

“You’re spacing out on me, dude.” Newton snaps his fingers, studying Hermann with slightly more intensity. “Did you eat lunch?”

“Did I _eat_?” Hermann scoffs, refusing to get into a debate about how Hermann is nothing if not aware of his own physical needs. “You’ve been ‘spacing out’ on me for a while now, so excuse me if I take some time to orient my thoughts before simply tossing them into the world.”

“Overthinking’s going to be the death of you, Hermann. It is possible to think about things too much, you know. Am I going to have to make you a poster? ‘Stop thinking about existentialism and concentrate on your imaginary numbers, Hermann Gottlieb’.”

“I don’t need you to—“ Hermann stops himself again (he’s gotten good at that, with Newton) and shakes his head, gripping his cane more tightly. “When will your labs be finished?”

“We’ll get out of here early. Well, early-ish. I can rope Brianna into finishing my reports.” Newton grins as a dark-haired woman behind him groans aloud, and he glances over his shoulder to meet her death glare. “You love the reports, Bri.”

“I prefer doing the reports just so I don’t have to fix your mistakes, Doctor G.”

“Newt, please! I keep saying, call me Newt.” Newton shakes his head before studying Hermann again, and for just a moment, his puppy-like demeanor fades. “Dude, Hermann. Stop worrying about me and live your life. I’ll be fine.”

 _You_ became _my life when you trusted me to save you._ Hermann keeps his expression neutral, but his tension eases slightly as he prepares to go. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“You know it.” Newton nods, staying in place as Hermann leaves the lab again and the door falls shut behind him. There is a moment of silence, when the students are afraid to speak and Newton is afraid to move too fast, but he quickly puts it behind them and turns back to the five (did he really start five projects, all at once?) different labs at work in his lab. As he returns to the field, so to speak, to the chaos of neurons and transmitters and stimulated cell growth, he finds himself concentrating on Hermann’s visit and tries not to drop his equipment when Hermann’s voice pops into his head.

_Why do you have to be so stubborn, Newton?_

It’s not EPIC rapport, or telepathy, or any kind of thing, Newt knows that intellectually, but it’s hard to detangle his own thoughts sometimes, and hearing Hermann in the voice of his own internal monologue is jarring. Still, Newt gives the man the respect he deserves, and responds accordingly.

 _I’m not stubborn, okay, man, that’s not what I am. That’s_ you _. I’m the free-thinker, the neuroscientist-without-boundaries, the one who goes with the flow as much as possible. Not stubborn._

This line of thinking prompts him to remember that he isn’t exactly himself, not anymore, not since the drift, and it’s possible he’s using Hermann’s mannerisms in his own way this time. He has been, for months, but never this overtly. Or maybe it is overt?

_You purposely oppose direction and limitation merely because it exists. That counts as stubborn._

Okay, so he and Hermann had been compatible. For different reasons, and in different ways, but they had been drift compatible and the drift might have conflated some of their already-present idiosyncrasies. Besides, he’s worked with research teams and within academic circles for most of his life, it’s not as if he’s an anarchist. He can work within a system, if it’s a well-organized system. But Hermann’s stubbornness—

Right. Hermann.

It wasn’t like Hermann to ‘stop by’ in the middle of the day, even if they were life partners and also married and also now permanently linked by an off-brand drift interface. Maybe that wasn’t Hermann entirely, then, maybe there was some Newtonian influence prompting him to deviate from his usual course, chart a new path.

For just a moment, Newt thinks about Hermann’s relationship to Descartes and tries not to sigh aloud, because he can still appreciation rationalism just so _well_ now, and—no. Not Descartes. Hermann. Hermann, who listens to good music now, and doesn’t interfere when Newt starts making lists. Okay, so A) Why had Hermann showed up? and B) Why hadn’t Hermann actually talked about whatever it he wanted to say? Obviously he hadn’t wanted to ask about Liz Manchester, even though she seemed like a cool enough person with a sense of the radical and a healthy dose of anti-establishment vibes, but that wasn’t Hermann’s thing. That brought him back to the Newtonian influence. Perhaps Hermann had started borrowing Newt’s pathways, just as Newt was accidentally borrowing Hermann’s? Again? (You’d think they’d get used to the conflation by now, but Newton knew from experience and from his own knowledge of Hermann that Hermann himself was still not comfortable with the sensation. A brain’s a brain, though, and brains do what they want to do.)

Then again, he couldn’t rely on ‘the drift’ to explain everything that didn’t make sense about Hermann. There were still things that he sometimes didn’t understand, and he treasured those things, because having a window into someone else’s brain turns out to be a lot more uncomfortable than the Jaeger pilots made it out to be. Unbidden, Newt’s brain conjures up the images of kaiju parts floating in preservative, and the subtle hiss of disconnected brains makes his head hurt.

“Doctor Geiszler?”

“It’s Newt.” He responds automatically, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to catch the first few drops of blood from his nose. The distraction directs him to the nearest work group, who are now staring in some apprehension as he staunches the nosebleed. “Hey, um—are you sure you guys have enough reactant? Because I don’t want to have to set this up tomorrow just because we didn’t get any results the first time, you know?”

“You think—“

“I _know_ , mini-Marshal, so just think about it. Not that I’m dictating the rules of your lab. Although it’s technically my lab. Listen, you know what, if you want to run it twice, that’s fine by me. More data points, and all. You do you, and I’ll sign off on the requisition forms.”

He can tell that this soliloquy hasn’t dampened their apprehension, and he turns away to try and excavate a desk on the far side of the room. He has a desk, and an office, and even an attempted library now, but they’re rarely in any condition to be useful. Instead, he uses the corner of the desk as a grounding point as he dabs at his nose, confident the bleeding’s stopped now. He hasn’t solved anything about Hermann, but really, will he ever?

Scratch that, he already has, he just doesn’t always know he has. He’s got Hermann more fully than either of them know.

_I grok you, dude._

The kaiju kids in his brain, leftovers from his drifts (tiny, fragile things now, weakened by time), like the idea of ‘grok’, and they rifle through his memories of Heinlein to appreciate it even more. Newton tries not to follow them down a path of English etymology, and instead replaces his handkerchief in his pocket and watches his students work.

Maybe he will leave early. They don’t need him for this. He’s got a class tomorrow anyway, and there’s probably grading somewhere he can work on.

If only Hermann would just stop worrying.

Oh, he knows that somehow this all comes back to Hermann worrying. It doesn’t make sense, expect for the parts where it does, and Newt still isn’t always comfortable with the idea of Hermann sitting there _fretting_ like some sort of overprotective dog. Newt has only been responsible for himself, and he liked it that way, even if he got overly invested in select individuals who couldn’t reciprocate. He was an adult. He could handle it. But then Hermann had deemed himself responsible for Newt, and he wouldn’t let go, and Newt can appreciate that now more than ever thanks to the streak of gold-tinged memories that aren’t his. Of course a rationalist would cling to structure, and flavor it with a dangerously affectionate loyalty that was entirely undeserved. _Just because they gave you a job, Hermann, doesn’t mean you have to lick their boots._

He remembers this conversation in duplicate, his own indignation crashing against Hermann’s in a sparkling rainbow of memory.

But Hermann had applied that loyalty to Newt himself, somehow. An interpersonal breakthrough.

Maybe Newt could try and understand the guy’s concern.

Maybe…

Maybe he’d find a good reason to convince Hermann that his newfound interest in Liz Manchester was merely academic, and simply an attempt to reenter the artistic scene.

Maybe he could reassure Hermann without picking apart his own reasoning too finely.

Maybe.


	3. Chapter 3

It is three weeks later, with papers graded and a new season of midterms fast approaching, when Newton is laying with his head in Hermann’s lap, a documentary playing on their single television. Hermann has set his cane aside, using their coffee table (in a particularly Newtonian fashion, Newt notes) as a footrest while he arranges Newton’s hair. The ritual is familiar to them, and comforting, and unlike some of Hermann’s other forms of affection, the hair-mussing-and-fixing doesn’t prompt the kaiju kids to start making comparisons to other forms of physical contact. Newt’s been trying to teach them the difference between ‘affection’ and ‘aggression’, but their brains just aren’t (weren’t) wired for the former, and they usually default to the latter. He can usually catch them in time, before his hands start curling into claws and he starts staring at the Wall, and he can still have fun in purely human terms. But there still come times when one pathway gets triggered instead of another, and he starts bleeding just when Hermann tries to move too close.

Newt still hasn’t rolled up his sleeves, either. The kids in his brain and the kids on his skin might just overwhelm him if he does.

Still, in the silence with the kids and with Hermann and the vague televised figure of a fictional Albert Einstein, Newt is happy. He’s in an Elysian good mood, in fact, and he’s had just enough alcohol (wine, not the hard stuff, since Hermann had wanted them to be ‘pleasantly tipsy’ and not merely ‘hammered’) to hum softly. When he reaches up to touch Hermann’s chin, he opens his eyes, and speaks.

“I don’t have a reason for going to the kaiju exhibition.”

Immediately, Hermann tenses, though he tries to hide it with a controlled relaxation of his leg muscles. Newt frowns, letting his hand fall, and turns back towards the TV.

“I thought that was a good thing.” _Did you_ want _a reason, Hermann? Does everything always have to have a reason?_

“You’re a bad liar, Newton.” Hermann’s voice is clipped, just like in their arguments, and Newt feels the emotional whiplash like a physical slap.

“I can’t _lie_ about things I don’t know about.”

“So—“ It’s only been six words, and Hermann is already having to trim down his arguments. Newton is an engaging debate partner, certainly, and they’ve both held their own admirably in their correspondence and coworker relationship, but whenever things move to the interpersonal, Newton’s obstinacy does more harm than good. Hermann has too many memories, both his own and Newton’s, of arguments that ended with fellow researchers storming into the night, or fracturing crucial relationships right when they needed strengthening. Newton fears this, as he always has. And so Hermann can’t argue about this.

But he still needs answers.

“—You know how suspect that sounds, Newton.”

“That I don’t know about something? You might be good at keeping secrets, Hermann, but even you can’t hide something in my own head. I know myself, inside and out.” Newton taps his temple, focused on the television. “I think, therefore I am? Even if I think in triplicate, that’s still me.”

 _How can you know, how can you tell?_ Hermann still never gets a good answer to that one, so he doesn’t ask it. “I’m not trying to dissuade you from your course of action. I’m just trying to understand.”

“All you have to understand is that I want to see the exhibition. It looks interesting.”

“Then why haven’t you found any other exhibitions interesting?”

“Because I’ve been busy? Because I’ve only been back in the US for barely a year? Not even a year. Because it takes time for me to nurture my artistic sensibilities, Hermann, and you just can’t _rush_ these things.”

Hermann reaches out once more to straighten Newton’s hair, offering this touch as conciliation. “Based on past experiences, Newton—a field with which I am overly familiar now, thank you—you haven’t _had_ artistic sensibilities for this medium. Doctor Manchester works in sculpture.”

“Yeah, well, you always liked oil paintings. Consider this a compromise.”

Hermann sighs, cupping Newton’s head before leaning back. “If we go—when we go—will you promise me that you’ll tell me the instant you feel uncomfortable? Because regardless of your approach to this exhibition, whatever it is, something will happen.”

“Why do you say that?” Newton turns again, sitting up when he finds Hermann with his eyes closed. Hermann opens his eyes slowly to find Newton facing him, and it’s a long moment before Newton reaches up to place his thumb on Hermann’s chin and splay his fingers across Hermann’s cheek.

“You need both hands for true SPECTER communication, Newton.” Despite the reprimand, Hermann’s tone is soft, and Newton internally cheers at the shift. He doesn’t say anything aloud, however, and finally Hermann closes his eyes once more before continuing. “I know something will happen because I nearly fainted just looking at the poster, and if this Doctor Manchester understands the aesthetic nature of the kaiju as much as she seems to, then this exhibition will merely be a visual assault of memories we’d rather forget.”

“We can’t forget them, Hermann.” Newt doesn’t understand fully, but he’s grasping the edges of Hermann’s worry now. There’s familiar arguments within the worry, one where Hermann worries and Newton begs him not to worry and Hermann just digs in tighter, but Newt doesn’t address those now. “That’s why I want to go. It’s not—I’m not working with the kaiju, you know I can’t, I—“

His brain is a marvel of biological engineering, and being the wonder that it is, it has automatically provided him with the potential futures of pursuing a career with kaiju materials again. He can’t predict how the residual kaiju influences might affect him, especially if he comes into direct contact with remaining specimens, and the kids in his brain remind him that he _could_ clone them, really, it wouldn’t be too hard to stimulate tissue regrowth. Or is it the kids? Who’s reminding him of this? Who’s thinking of these possibilities, based on his linguistic attempt to avoid these very thoughts?

He gasps sharply, inhaling more quickly than he means to, and in an instant Hermann sits up and is grasping his shoulders.

“Newton.”

“Hermann.” Newt manages a smile, pulling out of Hermann’s grip as he places both hands in his lap, and then he re-fluffs his hair before continuing. “But people still remember them. I want to find out how. I mean, sure, I could read articles about how society’s changed or how culture’s changed or how the fields of neurobiology and chemistry and quantum theory have all changed, but then I’d have to get involved, and…that wouldn’t end well.”

“Yes.” Hermann’s looking at him oddly, and Newt allows himself a moment to consider that potential future. Given his track record, if Newt did start reading the journals and articles and theses published since the closing of the breach, he’d feel honor bound to correct them, and once he started signing his name to official publications, people would start responding. (Too many of Newt’s official publications had had titles starting “In Response to…”, and his intellectual brawls rarely left anyone feeling good about their chosen field.) They’d start evaluating his experiences more closely, and start asking questions he still couldn’t fully answer.

Maybe Hermann knows this.

Hermann _must_ know this, if Newt’s interpreting that look correctly.

“But I don’t do sculpture. And if I did, no one would take me seriously. I mean, I could, but it would take a few years to break into the scene, form a collective— _Redacted Revision_ , maybe, to keep with my alliterative theme—and finally form a proper response to whatever it is I see. So if I go look at Liz’s work, and just…explore, then maybe I can get to understand things a bit better.”

“And you’ve never spoken to her before.”

“I’ve never met her.”

“But you call her Liz.”

“You saw the poster, right, Hermann? Of course she’s called Liz. Just like Coral’s called Coral.”

“Just because the woman happens to have some understanding of kaiju aesthetics—“

“You like that word, Hermann. Didn’t know you liked that kind of objective philosophizing.”

“Whatever it is she’s doing, Newton, it’s purposely mimicking the kaiju. Would you prefer I use the term ‘visual concepts’ instead of ‘aesthetics’?”

“Meh.” Newt raises a hand, fluttering it vaguely in front of him. “I dunno. ‘Aesthetics’ implies you appreciated it, just a little.”

“I never said I didn’t.”

“But you’re—“ Newt groans aloud, fixing Hermann with a glare intended to be piercing and full of irritation. If he’s picked up anything from Hermann, _please_ let some glaring-powers be in there. Hermann doesn’t speak, at least, and Newt takes that as a good enough signal to continue. “You don’t have to get irrationally angry about everything, Hermann!”

“I’m not _angry_. I’m simply trying to understand.” Hermann reaches down to pick up his cane, shifting his legs off the coffee table. “Walking into an exhibition isn’t like taking a half-shot of tequila. This isn’t exposure therapy, Newton, this is…”

“Irrational? Irresponsible? Irritating? I’ll take all three.” Newt moves with purpose to stand before Hermann does, attempting a dramatic pose in the dying sunlight. His gaze catches the Wall, just briefly, but Hermann’s hand is on his shoulder before Newt can concentrate too much. Hermann moves them, adroitly dodging the coffee table to pull Newt along with one hand, and the two of them transition to the kitchen before resuming.

“So you’ll go. And I’ll come along.” Hermann affirms, the tone of resignation making Newt hesitate.

He’s being a burden again, isn’t he.

“Hermann—“

“I don’t always understand why you do something, Newton, but you still do it.” Hermann has resumed the hand-on-shoulder thing, and Newt didn’t really notice he had stopped, but figures it’s a nice enough position to maintain. “But you _must_ tell me the moment you have to leave. Even if it’s just because your internal monologue is different, or if you start concentrating on Reimann zeros, or exhibiting a preference for Bach, you tell me.”

“Great! Internal team, Newton Geiszler; external team, Hermann Gottlieb.” Newt nods, his mind already crumpling up previous thoughts like discarded bottles. If only he had a wall to smash them against.

A Wall.

Hermann grips his shoulder again, and Newt refocuses.

“Listen, I’ll be _fine_. I know what I’m doing, and I just…want to see. This is limited exposure. Real, without being too real, right? Barely even a risk to my mental continuity.” Newt finally shakes off Hermann’s hand, moving to the hallway to begin the more menial tasks of self-care. He can feel Hermann’s attention following him, the intensity they have in common now focused primarily on him, but once he enters the bathroom, he closes his eyes to undress.

Hermann makes a good point. Newt still can’t handle the images he’d had tattooed on himself, back when his mind was a single (if rampantly explorative) whole, and if there is something at the exhibition that looks too much like _them_ , then—

That’s why he’s bringing Hermann.

That’s why they made this deal. Life partners. Research partners. The dream team, together forever, kicking ass and taking names. Hermann’s done the majority of that lately, what with the “coming to San Fran” and “getting them jobs” and “sure, Newton, I’ll watch while you keep bleeding randomly and think about climbing the Wall”, but Hermann doesn’t complain.

Newt feels the familiar ball of worry, the tension he’s covered so often and so well, and he refuses to let the montage play. He isn’t feeling sorry for himself. He’s feeling sorry for Hermann, a little, but the Hermann in his head refuses to feel sorry for either of them, and so it’s just the kids who are left to cry in the back of his brain.

_Sorry, kids. But you have to admit, you make a nice little sponge for the human spillover._

Their hissing is definitely hurt in tone, but he feels the guilt they want him to feel well enough. He showers in silence, eyes squeezed shut, and continues his routine as usual.

Maybe Hermann has a point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newton quotes Descartes ("I think, therefore I am.").


	4. Chapter 4

The morning of the exhibition comes up quietly, settling upon both Hermann and Newt in different kinds of silence. Newt awakens, and recognizes a tension in his stomach he hasn’t felt since he performed live, and he leaves for the university without a word to his colleague. Hermann is too similarly distracted to notice, trying to reconcile his predictions for the event with Newton’s apparent goals and intentions.

Perhaps they could simply be a normal couple for a night, and enjoy the luxuries of fine art.

The thought is so alien to Hermann it makes him smile grimly, Newton’s sensibilities for different art forms contrasting with Hermann’s own preferences for oil paintings and classical themes. Neither of them particularly like sculpture. They’re only going because of Newton’s fascination with the kaiju.

A fascination well deserved, by now, given that Newton is the only human on the planet who’s drifted with the things more than once. (And the only one who can acknowledge that semi-publicly.) Hermann prepares his breakfast, organizes his papers, and drives to the campus on autopilot, distancing himself from the mundane routines of everyday life to try and correct his own wayward thinking.

It won’t do for him to be concentrating on this all day. He _knows_ what overthinking can do, Newton himself has pointed it out on numerous occasion, and despite Hermann’s incredible predictive powers, they _always_ fail when it comes to Newton. Newton refuses to be categorized or made into a variable, and while most have stared in horror at his inconstancy, Hermann recognizes the beauty in it.

Hermann cannot predict what will happen tonight, because this is something Newton instigated, and Hermann is merely Newton’s backup plan in the event of total catastrophe.

Hermann idly wonders how bad things can get before Berkley fires them outright, then considers how much interaction Newton has had with the mathematics department, the physics department, the chemistry department, and finally, the biology department.

Berkley actually _likes_ Newton, despite the clashes between Newton’s personality and the confines of academia. Then again, after the PPDC, perhaps Newton is reveling in the newfound freedom of non-military pursuits.

One of which is the freedom to go immerse oneself in a room full of kaiju copycats, echoing Newton’s research in “artistic” measures and plunging them both into a mental landscape of teeth and claws and destruction which is “natural” for neither of them—

“Doctor Gottlieb, are you all right?” A soft female voice echoes up from his car’s speakers, and Hermann blinks twice to orient himself. He’s focused on the forms of seagulls in the distance, just specks against the morning mist, but he had been seeing them in duplicate. He’d been tracking them. Hunting them.

“I—Thank you, Hwi, but I’m fine.” His car is now doing diagnostic checks on its own driver. Hermann makes a mental note to ask Newton at some point if that was a preexisting feature of the vehicle, or if Newton had added an empathetic subroutine to the developing AI consciousness they’d dubbed “Hwi”. He also has the distinct thought that he could just ask Hwi herself, since she would have no reason to lie, but Hermann designates this thought as a “Geiszlerian interference” and dismisses it.

None of his students notice his distraction (if he is indeed distracted) through the day, and his class might even be deemed a success by most standards. Hermann finds it as easy as always to engage in the unfolding dimensions of mathematics, and he derives a comforting pleasure from examining his students’ proofs. They aren’t always the most elegant, of course, but there is thought in them. He points out inconsistencies, encourages the trimming away of excesses, and bestows the occasional compliment on exceptional work.

He is, at the end of the day, an _excellent_ professor.

Hours in his subject have distanced him enough from the topic of “Newton” and “kaiju” to the point that he doesn’t immediately think about Newton when his last student leaves, and it is an hour later that he looks up from his desk to find a figure at his door. Though he can tell it’s Newton (he can _always_ tell when it’s Newton) there is a hesitation in the stance, and Hermann doesn’t immediately stand as he tries to evaluate the situation.

Newton is here. That’s not surprising in itself: they do know where each has their office, and sometimes they actually keep regular office hours. Considering they have committed to an event tonight, Newton has even more reason to be here—except for the part where it’s so _unlike_ him.

Added to the uncertainty (that damned uncertainty) is Newton’s stance, and Newton’s attire. Newton has always prided himself on a certain “hipster flair”, or as Hermann prefers to see it, “professional rebellion”, but the polo shirt and slacks have a different cut to them. Hermann sits up a bit straighter when he notices that Newton’s shirt is _not_ artfully wrinkled, nor is it oddly stained by the remnants of experiments past. Instead of jeans, Newton is wearing tasteful black slacks, and though they might not have the creases of a recent ironing, they are also unwrinkled and unstained. Hermann has reconciled himself to Newton’s hygiene and clothing choices years ago, but this change is new.

“You like?” On purpose (it must be on purpose, it’s _always_ on purpose) to break Hermann from his reverie, Newton leans against the doorway and offers a lascivious smile. Hermann merely furrows his brow, pushing his chair away from his desk, and tries to form a response that will not acknowledge Newton’s attempted flirtation.

“This is in effort of tonight’s event, I take it.”

“Well. Sure.” Newton falls into the room more than he truly enters, and his easy movement takes him to Hermann’s desk in order that he might plant both hands on its edge. “I’m coming to pick you up. Like a couple. You know.”

“Did you go home and get changed?” Yes, romantic that he is, Hermann Gottlieb has chosen to focus on _this_ aspect of the encounter, and is trying to understand the organization in his head.

“No, man, we have plenty of room in the Life Sciences building. We even have showers. I mean, they’re not really intended for personal use, but I’m pretty sure everyone uses them that way anyway. I brought these last week and kept them in my office.” Newton brushes an imaginary speck of dust from his collar, making Hermann tense to see his own mannerism reflected from the outside. “So, I ask again: you like?”

“I appreciate the fact that you’ve made an effort, Newton.” Hermann reaches for his cane and stands, moving around his desk to approach his companion. There is a momentary silence as Newton’s smile wavers, and Hermann reaches up to place a hand on Newton’s shoulder and squeeze. “You look nice.”

Newton’s smile turns into a full-fledged grin, and it is that grin that convinces Hermann to forget about the papers on his desk and concentrate on Newton now. Though he removes his hand from Newton’s shoulder, he maintains a proximity that would disconcert him with anyone else, and continues to examine Newton’s clothing choices with a new attention.

“Good, I mean—you’re fine, as you are, I wasn’t expecting you to get dressed up or anything. You’ve always got that professor thing going on anyway, and even if it’s a bit of ‘stuffiness overload’ with us both in collared shirts, hopefully the art will be wild enough to balance that out. That’s an aesthetic thing, right? Balance?” Newton has begun rambling now, and Hermann listens quietly as he nudges his papers into order and picks up his briefcase. “But I figured, hey, maybe there’s a sort of dress code for a thing like this, it’s definitely not a department party that I can just rock with a leather jacket and microbiology jokes, so maybe we won’t get kicked out? Carl helped me pick out a place, and—well, hey, now I have one set of decent clothes, so you can’t ever yell at me for my fashion choices, because now they’re _conscious_ fashion choices and not merely a result of laziness on my part. The only time I’ve broken my fashion consciousness was because I had _you_ shopping for my clothes, by the way, so let me put that on the record. Herman Gottlieb: sometimes fashion literate, but only in specific sweater-hipster moments; Newton Geiszler: always fashion literate, making deliberate fashion choices, except when his brain decides to freak out and his life-partner-nee-roommate has appointed himself fashion consultant, please see entry for ‘Hermann Gottlieb’. So. Um. That wasn’t a dig against you, man, I did appreciate the sweaters, I just…” Newton finally trails off slightly, glancing to Hermann. “It doesn’t work for me.”

This spiel has managed to carry them all the way from Hermann’s office, tucked inside the Maths and Sciences building, all the way to the parking lot, where Hermann is keying the fob to unlock his car. He eyes Newton carefully, sorting through the variety of responses in his head, and drops his briefcase in his passenger seat as he fixes Newton with a particularly intense glare.

“And here I thought my sweater-based seduction had been working so well.”

It takes a moment, but Newton finally laughs aloud, backing away to give Hermann space to close the passenger door once again. “Touché, Doctor Gottlieb. Okay, yes, in _that_ sense, it does ‘work’ for me, but again, I refer back to the ‘specific sweater-hipster’ moments, which, despite your denials, _is_ a definite thing, and I will continually warn you against going to conferences in Portland because your brain will definitely short out from _all the sweaters_.”

Hermann leads them this time back to the sidewalk, a light breeze bringing a rush of cool air to the sun-warmed concrete. He glances in the direction of the art building, locating the theater number for the exhibition in his memory, and looks back to Newton one more time.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable in this attire?”

“What? Yes. Of course I’m sure. I made this decision a week ago, Hermann, and—okay, I know sometimes I have impulse control problems, but my freaking _clothes_ are not going to be a problem.”

“Okay.” Hermann grips his cane, running his thumb against the polished inner edge as if he’s testing guitar picks. _A muscle memory not his own, that one._ “Because it almost seems like you’re borrowing some of my tendencies in order to borrow my coping mechanisms.” _And that_ , he does not have to add, _does not exactly fill me with confidence, Newton._

“Hermann. Just because I wear a collared shirt, it does _not_ mean I’m borrowing your mechanisms. And even if I was, which is a perfectly normal thing to do post-drift, by the way, both Becket-Save-The-World and Mako-Save-The-World-But-Better can attest to that, it would be because I made the conscious choice to adopt those mechanisms, and not because I thought on a whim, ‘Oh, I guess I’ll start doing quantum computations because that’s what I like to do’. No. I picked these out, because I wanted to—because I wanted to, and I kept them in my office, and I got changed in a little tiny bathroom stall and took a shower and _picked you up_ , for God’s sake, so just—just. You just.”

 _Just what?_ Hermann’s brain prompts him to respond, and he shakes his head to physically dispel the thought. “All right. I’ll ‘just’.” There’s something else, something more he can feel taking shape in his brain, but he isn’t entirely familiar with this. He’s not sure what to say. But the impulse is strong enough to prompt him to reach for Newton’s hand, and the grip with which Newton responds encourages Hermann that he’s done the right thing. “I’m sorry. For not appreciating your effort. You look very nice, and I appreciate the effort it took to pick me up, and…thank you.”

Newton doesn’t immediately respond, but the pressure he maintains on Hermann’s hand as they begin to walk is reassurance enough. “I’m ticking the boxes, right? Figured I’d get around to it eventually. Organizing a romantic evening, dressing to appeal to my partner’s aesthetic tastes, showing a level of courtesy and deference so that my partner barely needs to worry about a thing—I think I deserve another doctorate, because I’ve just been upgraded to ‘Love Doctor’.”

“I don’t think it counts when you reduce it to a science.”

“ _You’re_ the reductionist, Hermann.”

“Besides, this event is to satisfy your curiosity, not mine.”

“Well, then we’re both equally romantic, because you agreed to come along anyway.”

Hermann doesn’t respond to that, but there is something rather nice blooming in his brain at the thought, and the touch of Newton’s expertise informs him that something must have triggered a release of dopamine. In a move he wouldn’t have expected, he’s able to sustain the knowledge of the emotion and still treasure the emotion itself, and he spends their walk considering the dual nature of knowledge and experience while Newton does his own thinking. Their arrival to the event is understated—there are no huge entrance pieces, and it’s an undergrad in the art program who offers them a small paper program instead of asking for tickets—but once they emerge into the exhibition hall itself, Hermann can feel the challenge they’ve set for themselves.

Of course he remembers the kaiju. Of course he knows their memories, their needs, their multifaceted eyesight and the additional limbs and the _teeth_ and the connection to a mind so much greater than their own, and it is in a conscious moment of self-realization that he lets go of Newton’s hand and moves to one side of the doorway. Hermann focuses on the people, not on the blue-tinged lights that _feel_ just like their memories, but even the people look wrong here. He feels an unknowable curiosity, the sensation of the things-which-are-other while simultaneously inhabiting the body of one of those ‘others’.

“Hermann.”

“Newton.” Hermann inhales sharply, his vision refocusing. He is human.

“You know, you were so worried about me—“

“Not _now_ , Newton.” Hermann forces through gritted teeth, attempting a mild smile as they begin to walk along one wall. Newton holds up the program to squint at the names, shrugging after a moment to fold it up and shove the paper in his pocket.

“So this one isn’t a sculpture. It’s just pictures.” Newton says, as if that is supposed to be better than the enormous blue and green mottled things taking up the center of the ballroom. Hermann tears his gaze away from the people and the _things_ to look at the display on the wall, seeing the familiar icons of destroyed landscapes and early Wall construction in a massive collage. “Here, take a step back.” Newton takes Hermann’s shoulders, maneuvering him backwards, and Hermann forces himself to look again to determine a change.

“What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Colors. Look.” Newton points, tracing a vague line from the top of the collection down to the bottom. “They’ve made the Rim out of…the Rim. Kind of.” He pulls out the paper program, glancing at a title. “Good thing we started with this one. There might actually be an order.”

“Isn’t that somewhat contradictory? For a discipline about expression and freedom, there’s a specific order to experience the idea?” Hermann frowns, then relaxes slightly as he notices Newton’s glare.

“You don’t have to be a scientist about this, dude.”

Hermann sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before nodding. “Fine. Yes. You’re right. You’re well-adjusted and acclimating well, and I’m—“

“Hey, I mean—okay, I’m not saying I _expected_ the freak out and the mood swings, but it’s _okay_ , Hermann.” Newton nods to the collage again, glancing between Hermann and the photos. “Just look. Look for a little bit, and tell me what you notice.”

Hermann gets distinct flashes of colleagues he’s never had, those biologists and chemists who looked more at the psychology than at the science in Newton’s papers. He remembers Caitlin Lightcap. He focuses on the pictures, trying to ignore his preconceptions about “modern art”, and thinks.

“They’re people.” He finally concludes, looking back to Newton. “They’ve started their exhibit with a collage of people.”

“No kaiju.” Newton nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. Despite his ‘cleaning-up’, he still resembles the unkempt biologist of their PPDC days, and Hermann forces himself to look back to the photos. “So even in this, even when they got you to come by saying, ‘Hey, let’s look at kaiju!’, they’re still aware of the people.”

“They can’t avoid the people. If you’re going to try and ‘explore’ the kaiju, you have to factor in the people.” Hermann looks at the ground, tapping his cane once, and looks up again to find Newton grinning at him.

“You know, that might be the most profound thing I’ve ever heard you say that wasn’t about ‘the handwriting of God’.”

“Just because I don’t always like this type of ‘art’ doesn’t mean—“

“Don’t preach at me, dude, I had to hold your hand through that little aesthetic exploration.” Newton adjusts his glasses unconsciously, glancing along the wall to note the next few displays. Hermann watches for a moment, awaiting further artistic discovery, but he notes (with an odd measure of disappointment) that Newton does not speak. Instead, they walk in silence, journeying past floor-to-ceiling triptychs, textured maps of the destruction of Sydney and parts of Hong Kong, and increasingly stylized renderings of the different kaiju. Hermann can identify them by sight, and he is unsure whether this is knowledge from his own mind or from Newton’s. (He does not consider whether he can identify them so well because of knowledge from a third party.)

He does not recognize when Newton begins wandering off, and Hermann instead loses himself in the silence of the exhibition. There are some muted conversations, other groups pausing in front of the larger sculptures, but Hermann circles the room first before coming to the pieces at the center. The two monoliths rise ten feet above his head: one the soft amorphous curves of an ocean wave, the other the harsh ridges of mouths, bone structures, and anger. Hermann tries to understand why he can _feel_ the anger in the second piece, and why it feels wrong, and he finally looks down to find his knuckles white around his cane.

There shouldn’t be so much anger because the kaiju were not angry. They did not feel anger, or define anger, as this artist wants to claim. Hermann knows anger, knows it _intimately_ well, and that is what he can see in this structure. Like the harsh edges of a clean, precise science, his anger is a tool, and it is staring him in the face as he tries to follow a single line through the material to the top.

“Hermann.” Newton’s voice is not firm, as it is when they orient each other. Hermann looks quickly to find Newton hunched by his side, holding his hand to his nose as blood drips onto his cuff. “Hermann, I didn’t bring a handkerchief to this, I forgot—“

Hermann wordlessly hands him a handkerchief, watching as Newton tries to recover in the semi-privacy afforded by their bodies. _So you’re not immune to the influences either, Doctor Geiszler._ After some time, Newton manages to straighten, holding the cloth to his nose before glancing at the sculpture beside which they’ve stationed themselves.

“Harsh.”

“Exactly. I hope the artist isn’t attempting a statement about ‘duality’. That seems needlessly reductive.”

“You’re the reductionist, Hermann.” Newton claims for the second time that night, tilting his head back to find the top of the sculpture. “At least they got the colors right.”

Hermann freezes up again, the question _How do you know the colors are RIGHT?_ frozen on his lips as he considers the weight of Newton’s statement. He agrees with Newton, but he does not know why, and he takes a step back again to look at both sculptures in tandem. The blues and greens are obviously taken from the sea, and from the electric blue of the kaiju themselves, but there are harsh shadows the light does not cast, brilliant flourishes of yellow, pink, and purple in tiny sparks that almost look like the Breach, and Hermann realizes—

“They must have talked to someone.” Newton concludes. “It’s not like there were a lot of photos of that. Which means if they talked to people, then they’ve been thinking about this for a while, and this is an effort to understand people. It’s not—“

“They’re not inherently exploring kaiju, Newton. There isn’t a point to it.” Hermann reaches up to adjust glasses he doesn’t have, and shakes off the impulse in irritation. “This is about how people understand the kaiju.”

“You are having an amazing journey of discovery here, dude, and I am all for it.” Newton jerks forward slightly, adjusting the cloth around his nose. “Dammit.”

“Do we need to leave?”

“No. No, I just—listen, they could have been a lot worse. They’re not trying to understand the kaiju, right, you just said that. So I’m not having any trips down other neural pathways. I’m a human, exploring how humans think, and—“

Hermann has to turn to catch Newton this time, and he tries not to think about the other visitors to this exhibit as Newton falls against his shoulder. He cannot follow Newton’s train of thought, and doesn’t particularly want to, and he instead chastises himself for allowing Newton to wander off.

 _I’m not a child, dude. I’m an adult. I make decisions. I dressed myself today, just for you_.

Hermann grips Newton’s shoulder and shakes him gently, helping him stand straight again so that Hermann can study his pupils.

“I swear to God, Newton, if I have to wake up Doctor McClure—“

“No, no. I’m mostly self-regulating now.” Newton straightens, continuing to dab at his nose while rubbing at his eyes. “Fine. I’m fine.”

Hermann wants to scream, just a bit, because Newton is such a bad liar, but before he can work up the rhetoric for a proper diatribe, a figure appears beside them to send both of them into a new spiral of surprise.

“Hey guys! We good over here?” The woman is slightly older than Hermann might have expected, her reddish hair tinged with graying streaks and artistically placed blonde highlights. He knows logically this is most likely Doctor Elizabeth Manchester, and he finds himself thinking of her as ‘Liz’ almost by instinct.

_Newtonian influence, Doctor Gottlieb. Gotta love it._

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. I, um. This is a thing I do.” Newton’s explaining, gesturing with his free hand to his nose and offering a flimsy smile. “I’ll be fine.”

“I understand.” She smiles easily at both of them, and Hermann studies her for a moment longer before she resumes speaking. “If you’d like to stay here, that’s fine, but if you’d like to see more, there’s another room through those doors. One of my students has another program, too, to complete your experience—“

“We already got one at the door.” Hermann interrupts, glancing back to Newton. The man’s recovering admirably, but if Newton decides to start questioning this ‘Liz’ about her artistic decisions—

“With all due respect, you got the ‘door program’ at the door. We like to save some surprises.” Doctor Manchester smiles again, glancing first to Newton’s sleeves, then to Hermann’s cane. “Would you rather trade pleasantries here, or keep exploring? I’ll get out of your way, I promise, but I do want to make sure all my visitors are able to interact properly with the exhibit.”

“We’ll be—“

“Why did you do this?” Newton blurts out, pulling away from Hermann to begin following Doctor Manchester towards the doors she had indicated. To her credit, Liz isn’t immediately surprised by the question, and she merely guides them across the carpeted ballroom while she processes the question.

“Are you asking from a place of righteous indignation? Or is this genuine curiosity? I have my suspicions, but I’d rather not make assumptions, Doctor Geiszler.”

Hermann tightens his grip on his cane even as Newton breaks out in a ridiculous grin, his handkerchief now balled up into a pocket as he recovers. “So you’ve heard of me!”

“In the Art Department, Doctor Geiszler, one can barely help but to hear of you. I’m glad you came, even if the exhibit isn’t entirely sensitive to your experiences.” Liz holds open one of the double doors to let Hermann and Newton enter, and though the room beyond is darker than the one they’d just left, Hermann’s attention is inexorably drawn to the movement at the center of the room.

Instead of double monoliths like in the first room, there’s only a single sculpture, but Hermann watches as its soft curves and gentle waves morph in real-time, sharpening and churning to produce ragged edges. Even as the edges resolve, a new flow of sinuous swirls rise up from the base, pulling his gaze across the sculpture in a disorienting turn. It takes him some effort to look away from the thing, its undulating mass almost offensive in its inhumanity, and instead concentrates on Liz—no, Doctor Manchester—while trying to form a question.

“Why this, then.” Hermann asks flatly, his free arm gesturing to the thing as it writhes. Liz’s smile grows sharper somehow, and there’s a sudden glint in her eye that Hermann deems ‘definitely Newtonian’. Newton himself is drifting to the side, entranced by the monolith but equally distracted by other moving shapes and figures along the walls.

“This is the heart and soul of the exhibit, Doctor Gottlieb. It’s not perfect, not yet, but it will never be perfect. This is humanity’s understanding of the kaiju.”

“That’s—“ Hermann stops himself before he insults the woman’s life work, and instead looks back to the sculpture to try and understand. “How?”

“It’s about data, mostly. The figure itself is real enough: a core of bamboo, with strengthening rods, then a layer of electric gel that responds to stimulus, then the outer layer of lighted mesh. Eventually I hope to make a version that changes texture, too, but we couldn’t get it ready in time.” Liz clasps her hands to her chest, rising up onto her tip-toes for just a moment as she watches the thing morph. “If you’d like to participate, I’d love to see it.”

“Participate?” Despite himself, Hermann is being dragged along, and the sheer force of Liz’s intensity brings him to a small screen mounted on the railing around the object. “I’m afraid I still don’t—“

“It’s explorative, Hermann.” Newton chimes in, appearing almost from nothing as he walks up to a screen of his own. “This is—I mean, sorry, Liz, I’m not the expert here, but you’re like…this is like sonar for the psyche, right? Except you’re not doing a specific person, you’re just exploring the way people think generally, and you’ve limited yourself to the kaiju so that you can write it down and record it somehow.”

“Mostly, yes. I’d argue that the act of ‘recording’ is itself a fallacy, since the recording would change the memory, but you’ve got the gist.” Liz nods, glancing between the two men once more. “’Sonar for the psyche’. I’ll have to remember that.”

“As long as I get credit in the citations.” Newton offers another winning smile, then turns to Hermann. “C’mon, Hermann. This is what we came for. I’ll do it if you do it.”

Hermann wrinkles his nose, considering the proposal, then finally sighs and turns back to Liz in defeat. “What exactly is it we’re doing?”

“Okay, so—you’ll touch the screens to begin, simple stuff, then there’ll be lists of words and colors. There’s a prompt at the top of the screen, but it’s basically what you associate with the kaiju themselves. I can’t lead you here—my input would bias you—but simply rank the items on the screen as you feel best. Once you’ve finished, I’ll explain more, but we’ve tried to make the interface as transparent as possible.” Liz gestures to the screens once more, backing away to let Hermann and Newton study the objects.

“And this will…change it?” Hermann can only nod in the direction of the sculpture-thing, still unsure.

“That’s the hope. I’ll let you in on a secret: we’ve keyed it to be most responsive to the terminals in this room, but the constant movement, that’s from data sets we’ve compiled online. Our site’s been up for a few months now, and there’s probably still inputs being sent even while we speak. It will never be the same twice.”

“ _Nice_.” Newton says in genuine appreciation, and Hermann spares him a withering glare before stepping up to the terminal screen. The two men move in sync, familiarizing themselves with the display, and Hermann gets a sudden rush of memory as he recalls another synchronized unit. At least there’s not helmets this time. And there’s an incredibly low risk of brain damage.

“All right, Hermann—go.” It’s Newton that makes the call for some reason, pressing the button to begin as if he’s a child on Christmas morning. Hermann tries to focus on his own screen, and to concentrate on the associations Liz had emphasized, but this kind of makeshift-Rorschach test is hardly compelling.

A list of colors: blue, black, yellow.

A list of names: Melanie, Terrance, Illya.

A list of adjectives: hard, whole, strong, quick.

Emotive words; lists of opposites; images; places—the speed is disorienting, which is perhaps the intention. He wonders if Liz knows how closely they know the kaiju. He wonders if she’d considered it at all when she heard their names, if she’d come over specifically for this reason, and dragged them in here to do this. He wonders what she would have to gain, and why she would want their exceptional experiences tainting her data like this, if their memories are hardly representative of the global public.

Before he realizes it, the screen offers a smiling face, and Newton is grabbing his shoulder in excitement to pull them away. “We’re done, Hermann.”

“It takes a few moments to compile. Give it time.” Liz says, still standing off to one side as Hermann extracts himself from Newton’s grip. Despite the unease Hermann feels about the ‘thing’, he forces himself to watch, its writhing resolving slightly as a new bloom of color spreads along the base.

“It’s _us_.” Newton breathes in something like reverence, standing still as the room warms in the rush of new color. Hermann’s not sure how the colors are generated—there’s more than the options he was given on the screen, at least—but even the rush and swirl is enough to remind him of the drift. There’s streaks of brilliant gold, and as they rise through the piece, the unsure waverings of the thing’s movements seem to resolve, arching instead into the aesthetically clean lines of Gothic architecture. Patterns like helixes swirl along the edges of the design, sparking bursts of color in purple, blue, and green, and for a brilliant moment, Hermann sees something _proud_.

Is this what Newton sees when he looks at the kaiju, then?

Is this what _Hermann_ sees now, thanks to Newton’s presence in his brain?

Is this what they both see now, thanks to their brief moment spent in communion with the very hivemind that birthed the kaijus in the first place?

“It’s beautiful.” Liz breathes, almost inaudible given her distance from the pair. Newton grips Hermann’s elbow, turning to Liz with a ramble already queued to begin, and Hermann deftly jerks away from Newton’s hand and grabs the man’s wrist instead.

“Doctor Manchester, we appreciate—“

“That was _so cool_.” Newton has apparently regressed to his elementary years in order to find proper appreciation for their efforts, and Hermann’s grip on his wrist does not seem to be deterring him in the slightest. “Have you considered—“

“ _Newton_.” Hermann’s voice is clipped and sharp, and he tenses as both Newton and Liz look at him in shock. “We’re done here.”

“Hermann, listen, we can’t just _leave_ , I mean, Liz is right here! I need to know—“

“We’ve ruined her data set, Newton. Our experiences are hardly indicative of the thoughts, feelings, or experiences of the world at large. We are the anomalies.”

“That’s why it was so great.” Liz speaks up, stepping closer once more to study the pair. “First off, I’m never going to see that again. So I’m glad I got to see it now. Secondly, outside of actual Jaeger pilots, you two have been as close to the kaiju as it’s possible to get. Especially you, Doctor Geiszler, you’ve always—I mean, you were memorializing them even before we knew they needed to be memorialized, and you’re their finest champion, and that was _visible_ right there, and—“

“They were _monsters_ , and they are gone, and they are _never_ coming back.” Hermann interrupts again, shocked when Newton pulls away and stares at him.

“Dude, we’re not saying that. This isn’t about that.”

“You _idiot_.” Hermann is shocking himself now, unsure of why exactly Newton’s an idiot this time, but instead of explaining himself, he pulls away further and turns to leave. Newton stares, taken aback, and as Hermann disappears through the double doors, Liz speaks once more.

“I should have—I’m sorry, I did sort of just accost you two in the middle of the exhibit. Not exactly best practices, there. I should apologize to him, it’s obviously—“

“You didn’t do anything.” Newt reaches up to adjust his glasses, running a hand through his hair to try and settle his heartrate. Hermann hadn’t been threatening, sure, but he’d been on edge, and even that was worrying enough to get Newt flustered. “He’ll be fine. I mean, I dragged him to this anyway, he’s probably just upset at me. Yeah. He’s a mathematician, you know, all about concreteness and certainty and verifiable results. This is as foreign to him as breathing underwater.” _Bad example, bad example, BAD EXAMPLE,_ screams Newt’s brain, and he has a memory of breathing underwater as he swims, huge and lithe and destructive—“Anyway, don’t take it too personally. It’s just me.”

Liz considers this for a moment, still looking at the doors. “Do you think he knows he’s lying?”

“Um.” Newt sort of wants to say ‘yes, he’s always lying to himself, and sometimes he knows that’, but he’s not sure that’s what she means. “How?”

“What you guys did, just there. I mean, that was incredible, for a lot of reasons, but the thing I didn’t get from that was the word ‘monster’. He called them ‘monsters’. And I agree with that assessment, insofar as I’m a human that likes survival, but what he says and the way he thinks aren’t the same.” Liz nods once, looking back to the sculpture still morphing in the center of the room. “You were both in agreement there, for a minute, and you both loved them.”

Newt stares at her. “You got all that even without a drift?”

“Listen, if you want to talk about the drift, my office hours are on the back of the program. I have several departmental meetings you should attend.” Liz offers a thin smile. “Are you sure he’ll be okay?”

“I—“ On second thought, Newt considers what Hermann’s doing. It couldn’t just be the ‘art’, since Hermann had signed on for that weeks ago, and he’d been—

Wasn’t it supposed to be Newt who was having the crisis of self, surrounded by kaiju paraphernalia? That had been their hypothesis going in, which meant that something had gone terribly wrong, since that was _not_ happening. _Then again_ , chimes Newt’s brain, _could you tell?_ Newt has to concede that no, he couldn’t tell, since his perception is entirely biased by his own interface with the world, and even if Hermann’s having trouble, Newt might himself be having trouble keeping track of the people in his head, and neither of them would be able to tell since their baselines had just disappeared.

“I should talk to him.” Newt concludes aloud, and Liz visibly relaxes.

“Please, apologize to him for me—“

“Don’t beat yourself up. Love the work.” Newt offers a thumbs-up in lieu of a wave, and moves to leave through the double doors once again. Hermann isn’t in the main exhibit hall, and so Newt plunges into the hallways of the art building, trying to determine Hermann’s most likely location.

Whether through residual EPIC Rapport, or merely by blind luck, Newt manages to find Hermann outside, the shorter man leaning against a walkway light as he taps his cane against the ground. Were Newt more inclined, he’d try and remember this image, the light framing Hermann as if he’s an Edward Hopper subject. Instead, Newt plunges forward and grabs Hermann by the shoulders, shocking them both out of silence and into a new, tense uncertainty.

“Hermann.” Hermann doesn’t respond immediately, and Newt’s heartrate just about spikes through the roof. “ _Hermann_.”

“I’m not _dissociating_ , Newton, I don’t need your orientation.” Hermann is just barely containing a snarl, and Newt wants to simultaneously hug him and slap him. At least he can be relatively certain that this _is_ Hermann.

“You left. That was kind of rude.”

“I do not need to be lectured on manners by you, of all people. I extracted myself.” Hermann pulls out of Newt’s grip, brushing off his arm as if Newt’s left a stain, and Newt isn’t sure how to react. He can feel Hermann’s tension, can taste the edge in the air, but he can’t pinpoint a reason. This sort of thing calls for subtlety, and unfortunately, that isn’t exactly his strong suit.

“Was it really that uncomfortable?” Newt wants to ask what it felt like, if Hermann felt anything, and what exactly they should be doing to fix it, but Hermann is rarely so straightforward. Newt glances down at his own hands, the edge of one tattoo just barely visible in the shadow of a cuff, and remembers in a shock that he isn’t wearing his usual rumpled shirt. That’s right—he’d gotten ready. And prepared. And tried to be accommodating.

Well, that ended splendidly, didn’t it.

“If you want to go back, we’ll go back. I shouldn’t have left so abruptly.” Hermann’s straightening, looking away as he fusses with his own sweater, and Newt’s starting to get a headache from the back-and-forth. Hermann still isn’t answering his questions, though, and Newt isn’t about to let that pass.

“Did it feel too much like the drift?”

Hermann jerks slightly, and Newt feels a guilty pleasure in knowing that he’s partially right. There’s a long moment of silence, Hermann’s knuckles white against his cane, and Newt opens his mouth to speak again just as Hermann cuts in.

“Did you ask her about drifting? Did you talk about it?”

“No. I mean, we didn’t—I came looking for you pretty quick, we didn’t get into details. And it’s not like…we barely know her, I’m not about to start rambling on about the drift like that. Even if I did, we wouldn’t talk about you, you wouldn’t—she wouldn’t know that you’d drifted, that we’d drifted—“

“And you aren’t driven to build another drift interface to improve the experience, in light of this…” Hermann gestures vaguely to the building, turning partially to study it in the fading light. “Exhibit?”

“Another—“ Newt forces himself to wait, taking a step back to follow the thought. Liz’s sculpture had definitely hit on some elements of the drift, some of those unconscious connections that indicated compatibility, but Newt hadn’t immediately thought of drifting. Sure, there was a likelihood that he and Hermann had made a pretty similar image out of the word/picture/color associations, thanks to their newfound synchrony, but that was quite a leap to get to the idea of drifting _again_. And why would Hermann go there, mentally?

Unless it wasn’t necessarily Hermann.

“Hermann.” Newt clears his throat, trying to organize himself as Hermann has so often in the past. “Do you think you might be accepting influence from alternate neural pathways without realizing it?”

Newt isn’t really expecting Hermann to tense up this much (if the man was any more rigid, he’d calcify), but he feels his stomach drop as Hermann jabs his cane against the ground once more.

“How can you do it, Newton?” Hermann’s voice is quiet and low, and it breaks Newton apart to hear it. They’ve had this conversation before, Newt’s certain of it, but each time, Hermann gets lost in his own imaginings and barely accepts Newt’s corrective measures.

 _Percussive maintenance, is that it?_ Newt’s brain supplies, tinging the tone with memories of Dr. Lightcap. _That’s why you got into biology in the first place, it’s messy and it doesn’t make sense but it_ works _, goddammit, so form some bonds and help the stupid physicist/mathematician/Hermann find resolution_.

Newt finally sort of understands what it is his brain’s suggesting, and he reaches out to take Hermann’s hands before pulling him forcefully forward. Hermann doesn’t resist, and Newt waits a moment as Hermann presses himself against Newt’s formerly-unwrinkled shirt and clings there. With some additional maneuvering, Newt successfully arranges them into a hug, and he listens to Hermann’s irregular breathing before humming to himself.

“You should have said something, Hermann, I would’ve extracted you. You know. That’s our deal, that’s why we’re baseline for each other, even if you’re more often the baseline than I am, but—hey, I know they can get overwhelming sometimes, but you just gotta give them time, and you’ll find your way out in the end. I know you will, because you’re _Hermann Gottlieb_ , and if there’s anything you’re good at, it’s reducing, reducing everything down to the most base definition of its nature, and you’ve got your own little niche carved out—“

“I can’t _find_ baseline, Newton. She wasn’t even trying to empathize with the kaiju and I was pulled in regardless, and I was happy about it. And I don’t know if that’s _you_ or it’s _them_ , but it can’t be me, and so I overcorrected.”

“And you snapped. Well, at least you overcorrected in the right direction.” Newt smiles to himself, looking down as Hermann pulls away to offer an irritated glare. “What? It’s not exactly unlike you to snap. But that’s my point, Hermann, I can’t recognize something’s gone wrong if you don’t _mention_ it.”

“You weren’t in any place to offer recalibrations.” Hermann detaches himself from Newt with practiced ease, rocking back on his heels. “You saw what we made. I’m surprised Doctor Manchester didn’t mention the drift herself.”

“You’re overreacting. Just because we made a strikingly cohesive mental map based on a vague psychiatric profile doesn’t mean we must have drifted. We’re naturally compatible. And besides, it was pretty.”

Hermann shakes his head. “It was beautiful. It was strength, and power, and beauty, and I—“ Newt is wisely silent, for one of the few times in his life, and he presses his fingernails into the flesh of his hands as Hermann continues. “I admired it. Adored it. And _that’s_ what was in my brain when I thought about the kaiju, and—“

“Hermann. You’re overthinking this. I know, A) because I’ve had this exact conversation with myself, multiple times; B) because I’ve had this conversation _with you_ , about myself; and C) because people admire the kaiju regardless, and can _still_ be profitable members of society. I admired the kaiju before I drifted with them, and I still managed to save the human race, so technically, I’m coming out on top.”

“Newton, if I’m supposed to be your baseline, then—“ Hermann stops himself, but Newt can already feel the rest of the sentence in his head. Hermann’s being unfair to both of them now, insisting that Hermann himself must take all of this burden of regulating Newton, but _Hermann drifted with them too_ and Newt _knows_ that, he’s never forgotten it, and even if Hermann is a bit better at the “getting back into regular life habits” than Newt is, they’re still _partners_. Newt isn’t just going to leave Hermann out to dry, because Hermann is this way _because_ of Newt, and you’d _think_ they’d develop some sort of immunity to this topic or develop newfound trust in their own abilities or, forsaking that, simply _get over_ themselves and advance like normal people, but no, they’re still here.

“That’s the fifth sentence where you’ve cut yourself off. I must say, it’s not an attractive habit.” Newt chides, shaking his head as he reaches down to roll up his sleeves. He’s gratified to see Hermann furrow his brow, interest and surprise sparking a new train of thought in Hermann’s brain. “Listen. I know you don’t like uncertainty, and I get it, that’s why Descartes is so friggin’ sexy, but uncertainty is definitely my ballfield. Aesthetics? That’s uncertainty squared. I got the kaiju on my skin because I liked them, and I wanted to remember them, and now I’m stuck with them here forever, sort of a Mobius strip of kaiju feedback both inside and outside, but _that’s okay_ because that’s who I am now. I don’t have to be who I was before the drift because that’s an unsustainable way of living, and besides, we’re always going to be changing. Baseline’s constantly shifting. That’s why Liz made her thing, and why it’s not a static piece, and why she wants to find out more, and why she asked us to participate in the first place. Call it knowledge for knowledge’s sake, but she _lives_ in the uncertainty, swimming with people’s ideas and thoughts and concepts that are changing right in front of her eyes.

“I get that your brain is doing its thing out of a weird attempt at self-preservation,” Newton continues, fixing one sleeve before starting on the other. “But you’re just as capable post-drift as you were pre-drift, and even if you start feeling fond for the kaiju, that’s why you have me.”

“Newton—“

“ _Listen_.” Newt doesn’t even have to repeat himself, his own energy compelling Hermann’s silence. “Because I know, dude, I know what it feels like, and even on the off-chance that we somehow sync up our super-fond feelings for the baby kaijus, and even if we are suddenly possessed by the great need to drift with them again, or create more, or raise a little kaiju on our own, we can’t just _ignore_ that, because that is part of our experience. It’s part of who we are now. And you _have to tell me_ , Hermann, you have to let me know, because I trust myself now and I trust you even more, and if you don’t feel like you can trust me back, then—“

“Stop.” Hermann’s reaching out now, his hand on Newt’s elbow where the fabric is bunched. Newt waits, watching as Hermann studies the inked outlines of Knifehead and Mutavore in their prime, then swallows as Hermann makes eye contact once more. “I know.”

“What? What do you know? Because you say a lot of things, Hermann, and some of them you don’t always mean, and then you don’t say the things you _do_ mean, and now you’re…staring at my kaiju.” Newt can feel the kids clamoring in the back of his brain, urging him to stare at his own tattoos and lose himself in the thought of _them_ , but he focuses on Hermann instead. He knows this. He can navigate this. Because of Hermann. _For_ Hermann.

“You haven’t rolled up your sleeves in months.” Hermann says, running his hand up and down Newt’s bare skin. Newt is pretty sure this isn’t meant to be a “life-partner-turned-romantic-partner” overture, but it does feel nice, and just maybe, Hermann’s forming some conclusions. “How bad is it, to hear them? To have to think about them now? You’re not bleeding.”

“Yes, very astute, Hermann.” Newt wrinkles his nose, but nods, finally shaking off Hermann’s hand to lower his arms once more. “It’s better. Better than it was. But that’s what I mean, Hermann, I’m learning. I’m adjusting. I’m different from how I was when I got them, sure, but that would have been the same regardless of whether I’d drifted with them or not. Now I’m just repeating myself, but—you have to understand, Hermann, you have to _get this_.”

“I do ‘get this’.” Hermann nods, closing his eyes as he thinks momentarily. “I ‘feel’ that, in the visceral sense of the term. It’s simply not as familiar to me as it seems to be for you.”

“That’s why we’re _together_ , Hermann, so we can contrast our experiences.” Newt runs his hands through his hair, reaching up again to pull his sleeves back down. “Listen, can we go back in? We kind of ran off and abandoned Liz in there, and she thinks you’ve been horribly offended by her kaiju fangirling, which, in fairness, can barely compare to _me_ back in the day, but maybe we should explain that? And then we can ask her for a recommendation for some artsy bar, and determine whether artists actually appreciate the alcoholic merits of tequila or if they water it down with something else.”

Hermann looks at him oddly, quiet, then finally smiles and reaches out to grab Newt’s arm again. “Perhaps we won’t tell her that, but yes, we can go back.”

Newt grins back, suddenly a measure more comfortable now that his shirt’s been untucked and wrinkled, and as they walk back to the exhibition ballroom, Newt manages to maneuver Hermann’s arm-holding into a session of proper hand-holding, and they enter the exhibition as one before being accosted once more by Liz Manchester herself.

“Doctor Geiszler! Doctor Gottlieb, I—“ She pauses, noting their change in demeanor, but offers a small nod to Hermann. “I’m sorry for my boldness, really, you were under no compulsion to participate. I should have given you more information. You aren’t my average user, really, you’re educated professionals, and you deserved better.”

“It’s fine, Doctor Manchester.” Hermann shakes his head. “Newton has been explaining to me the value of experience, even if that experience is fleeting and transitory, and so I appreciate your efforts here.”

“You…appreciate them?” Liz’s worried expression softens, and she glances briefly at Newt before nodding. “That’s a compliment, Doctor Gottlieb. But you two have no need to stay for my sake. I’ll understand if you leave.”

“No. I want to know more about your project, Liz, and to do that I have to stay.” Newt squares his shoulders, looking behind Liz to the double doors at the end of the room. “I’m assuming all of your projects are participant based?”

“Those in there, yes. Are you sure—“

“Doctor Manchester, as long as you consider us mere visitors and attempt to ignore our academic and personal achievements, I think Newton and I will be fine.” Hermann answers, following as Newton plunges forward and Liz is dragged along. The reentry to the secondary exhibition is muted this time, and Hermann decides to keep quiet as Newton begins asking questions of Doctor Manchester in earnest. Fortunately, she is better equipped than most to handle his version of artistic appreciation, and although Hermann can tell it takes her conscious effort _not_ to ask about their own experiences with the kaiju, she engages with Newton to a level even Hermann can appreciate. Newton’s rhetoric about “uncertainty” flits through Hermann’s mind more than once, especially as Doctor Manchester— _just call her ‘Liz’, dude—_ explains how her results are barely results in the scientific sense of the term, but at the end of their informal tour, Hermann’s appreciation for her work has only grown.

Perhaps he doesn’t have to commit to an appreciation for all ‘modern art’, but this sort of artistic exploration—straddling the line between psychology, sociology, and experiment—seems to have value. And it makes Newton happy.

“Do you have plans for further exhibitions?” Hermann asks, after Newton has finally exhausted his own questions and might have finally reached the end of his thought processes. Liz glances to Hermann, as if remembering that he too exists, and offers a noncommittal shrug.

“Depends on how well this one goes. And if I can keep getting grants with this theme. I have some patrons who appreciate my work well enough, but creating, storing, and transporting these things isn’t easy. Since you mention it, though, we are hoping to expand into a more multi-faceted experience later down the line.” The student from the entrance appears beside them, and Liz hardly breaks stride before glancing to her. “You can go, Lina, I’ll see the last few out. Thanks for staying.”

“See you tomorrow, Doctor Manchester!” The student calls, leaving the trio once more. Liz resumes her thought, glancing around the room before leading them towards the door. “Next time, if we have a next time, I’ve been talking about joining with the Music department. They’re a bit more stodgy over there, devoted to their classics and their traditional forms, but if they let me, I’d love to have a music student or two who can help with organizing an aural exhibit. Translating the visual data into midi, for example, or generating tones and chords from the input. It wouldn’t be easy, especially since humans are so visual, but it’s another playground for me. And honestly, that’s why I got my degree, so why not, right?”

“Music, huh?” A smile flickers across Newton’s face, and Hermann yanks him away as they draw closer to the door. “Hey, Liz, if you get that grant, just hit me up. I’m a pretty big name in the industry, I think—“

“Thank you, Doctor Manchester, for your time and patience. Now we are _leaving_.” Hermann emphasizes, continuing to pull Newton away as Liz watches them.

“No, but seriously—“

“ _Later_ , Newton.” Hermann manages to get Newton out of the ballroom without any further rambling, and their exit is about as graceful as can be coordinated while they continue holding each other’s hands. Newton is studying Hermann in confusion, but doesn’t say anything until they’re both in the car, and Hermann waits for the vehicle to come to life before returning Newton’s scrutiny.

“What was that about?”

“That was about leaving. That was about leaving the poor woman alone, _not_ informing her of your varied musical achievements, and letting her close up for the night. Hwi, recommend a restaurant.” Hermann directs smoothly, buckling his own seatbelt as he prepares to back out of the Berkley lot.

“Hwi recommends restaurants now?”

“I have always been capable of determining suitable dining establishments for my passengers, Newt.” The car chimes.

“What she won’t tell you is that she has developed a capacity for preference, also.”

“That’s great!” Newton sits up, focusing on the small touchscreen as Hermann accelerates. “So which is it, Hwi? Mexican or surf-and-turf?”

“You don’t have to answer that question, Hwi.” Hermann rejoins, feeling the mechanisms of the car adjust as the gears shift.

“There is a small bakery approximately ten minutes from your current location, and an artisan bar located approximately twenty minutes from your current location.”

“We need alcohol, Hwi. Or Hermann does. He’s still not telling me why he pulled me out of there like a firefighter with a cat from a tree.”

“Don’t extend your metaphors too far, Newton.” Hermann glances to him. “You were doing fine all night, but unlike you, Doctor Manchester actually needs to sleep. If you’d started on the full explanation of your musical repertoire, we would have been there all night.”

“Fine, but you’re buying me a drink.” Newton folds his arms petulantly as he falls back in his seat, watching the road flash by in disorienting blurs.

“Of course. That’s what partners do.” Hermann smiles, feeling a familiar warmth blossom in his chest. There’s a long moment before Newton shifts slightly.

“Right. Because we’re partners.”

“You got dressed up for me. That deserves a reward in itself.”

Newton is grinning back now, distracted but still pleased by the exchange. “Oh, Doctor Gottlieb—our mutual rewards have only just begun.”


	5. Chapter 5

It is later in the night—or more properly, early the next morning—when Newt stares at the papers in front of him and the fish in their bowl, swimming in the stupor of sleep while Newt tries to process. He feels fine, really, even with the hangover creeping up on him, but he’ll be fine. He’s a trooper, they say. A real Rockstar. Party hard, live hard, and do it all again the next day. Still, something’s just a little off, and even if that’s his new version of ‘normal’, it still bothers him enough to prevent him from concentrating on his papers.

He jumps when a bleary-eyed Hermann appears in the kitchen doorway, clad in matching pajamas now familiar to Newt. Neither of them speak, almost afraid to break the silence of the witching hour, and so the only noise is the squeak of chair legs on tile as Hermann drags a chair partially around the table and collapses into it, grabbing Newt by the wrists. Newt rears back in an instinctive move, trying to pull himself away, but Hermann yanks him forward again and holds up Newt’s wrists like he’s presenting a mathematical proof.

“Is this for my benefit or yours?” Hermann quizzes, and Newt has to stare at him for a long moment before the change hits him. His sleeves have been rolled up again, both of them all the way to his elbow to display the colors of his tattoos, and Newt…

Newt isn’t freaking out.

“When did I do that?” He muses to himself, pulling away more gently this time as Hermann releases his wrists. “Did I do that?”

“I think I did that, but you left them that way.” Hermann rubs the bridge of his nose, still squinting in the light, but manages to make eye contact with Newt to confirm the other’s state of mind. “So you’re getting better.”

“Did I wake you up somehow? Because the EPIC rapport thing doesn’t work while asleep, I’m pretty sure—“

“It’s not EPIC rapport. I woke up regardless and you had the light on.” Hermann folds his arms and sits back in the chair, gradually gaining clarity as he emerges from sleep. “You should at least try to sleep.”

Newt wants to respond, to clarify that his insomnia now isn’t a Bad Thing, but something stops him from blurting out his defense. Maybe it’s Hermann’s bleariness. Maybe it’s the sound of the fish tank filter, kicking on with a whirr. Maybe it’s Newt himself, finally gaining an edge in this interpersonal chess game as the Hermann-in-his-head mumbles something pained and incomprehensible.

“The tattoos aren’t as bad anymore.” Newt says quietly, shifting his chair closer to merge their personal spaces. Hermann doesn’t react immediately, and indeed, for anyone who hadn’t worked with the man for ten years, he doesn’t seem to react at all. Still, Newt’s played this ‘personal space’ game more than once with Hermann, and he can see the tensing and relaxing that indicates interest.

 _Even you, oh Hermann of the mathematical purity, can be tempted down with simple biology_.

“They were pretty bad at first. You, um. You probably noticed that.” _And never asked about it. Or mentioned it. Jerk_. “But it’s not bad, like, immediately anymore. I’m not confused as often, and you’re here, and we’re…I’m just saying, I can do this now.” Newt waggles his hands to show off the tattoos more fully, shoving down the screams of the kaiju kids. It hurts, yes, and he’s sad for them, but their pain is not as raw as it was the week after the closing of the breach. They’re learning. Or, barring that, he’s learning, and growing, and healing. “I’d explain them to you again, but I don’t think you need the tour.”

“I remember getting them.” Hermann says. He taps a finger against the side of his chair, and Newt notices for the first time that he hasn’t brought his cane. “I’d—you’d started on the upper arm, when you could still pretend you had definite musculature there, and the pain was nothing compared to watching the ink get laid down. You’d chosen a spot with fewer nerve endings and maximum display possibilities, even though you knew you’d be trapped in a lab more often than you’d be wearing tank tops on some beachfront stage, and you…appreciated them.”

“Hermann, I didn’t—I don’t—“

“I meant the tattoos, Newton.” Hermann sighs, leaning forward to take Newt’s wrist. He turns the arm over once more, studying the colors, and finally relaxes his grip to grasp Newt’s hand. Newt’s still so perplexed by how this works, especially with Hermann—the man is hardly soft or forgiving, but the pressure of Hermann’s hand in his makes Newt’s brain sit up in attention, just a bit—but he returns the pressure. “You said you weren’t an artist, at least not in Doctor Manchester’s medium, but her medium is inherently accessible to everyone. She creates form out of the very processes of human memory. This was your memory, your concept of other, your _devotion_ to the something-else. I remember getting them.”

“And sure, it’s harder now, because the kaiju kids _really_ like the idea that I’ve biologically altered myself to look more like them, but it isn’t like that—“

“I love them now too. Or something approximating love. I have you to thank for the vague impulses that remind me of the neurological triggers for emotional states, but I still feel something for them. The kaiju. The ones we reached.” Hermann grips harder for a moment, then releases Newt. “Is it possible to see someone the way they see themselves and not love them?”

Newt blinks, then tries to force a wry smile. “Is this retribution for the ‘Doctor Love’ joke earlier?”

“Will we ever not love them, Newton?” Hermann finishes quietly, staring down Newton with a newfound intensity. Newt is taken aback, unsure if he should clarify the question with a response, and so instead of speaking, he stands up, pushes his chair back, and reaches for Hermann’s hand again.

“C’mon. You need to sleep.”

Hermann is pulled into standing, and Newt tries to help him back to the hallway when he feels Hermann’s fingernails digging into his back. “You don’t know. Newton, you have them in your head and you don’t know—“

Newt feels a bubbling uncertainty in his frontal lobe, emotion mixing dangerously with his own mental reflexivity to provide an interesting cocktail. He doesn’t want to talk about this right now. He’s thought about it almost exclusively for huge stretches of the past several months, and he’s not certain of his own conclusions, but there is _uncertainty_ there. Even if he usually loves the theoretical concept of uncertainty, his own brain and Hermann’s are on agreement here: uncertainty is dangerous, and should be avoided. Especially when the interpersonal dynamic you’ve got going is pretty good as it is. “Sleep. C’mon. Remember, sleep’s great, you’re always trying to convince me of how great sleep is—“

“ _Newton_.” There is a desperation in Hermann’s voice that Newt doesn’t hear very often, and that is enough to pull him back and make him focus. They’ve made it to the hallway, but Hermann is leaning against him, unbalanced by the lack of cane and Newt’s deathgrip on his shoulders. Newt carefully relaxes his hold on Hermann, and lets the other man straighten more in order to orient himself properly. “Newton, tell me what you know.”

“Hermann, it’s late.”

“It’s early, and that’s never stopped you before.” Hermann isn’t panicked, he’s not giving off any of the traditional fear responses, and Newt berates himself for letting the man slip back into his practiced angry tension. Hermann is so good at that, it’s his default for almost everything, and now Newt _really_ doesn’t want to have this conversation. “Tell me.”

“This isn’t about what I know, Hermann, don’t pretend—“

“ _Fine_. Tell me how it feels, then.”

“Hermann, I—“ No, no, no, he’s supposed to be helping Hermann right now, and he can’t—he _can’t_ start breaking apart again. Hermann. Hermann needs his help. Hermann has been sorting out some of these neural network pathway confusions, and he’s a champ, really, Hermann’s done great, but even if Newt’s gotten better about the tattoos he’s still so deeply _afraid_ of what might be coming next.

 _Don’t let go, Hermann_.

“I have to love them, just a little bit. You’ve always known that.” Newt feels his mouth go dry, and he clears his throat to compensate. “I love the kaiju. And I don’t know if I’ll—if _we’ll_ ever stop loving them, because they were in the drift with us, and they’re here now for good, but if that’s why I feel this way about them then I don’t want it to go away, and that’s not because I’m inherently self-destructive, man, as cool as it sounds on paper, I just don’t want to lose my grip on them because what happens if I let go of _them_ and end up losing hold of _you_?”

Hermann stares at him in the semi-darkness, each of them supporting the other in a nice little symbiotic structure, and he finally reaches up to splay a hand across Newt’s cheek like he’s memorizing the layout of the bone structure. Newt wants to quip to him, _You need both hands for SPECTER communication, Hermann_ , but he can’t make his mouth move right now, and so he just waits.

“I’m right here, Newton. I will always be right here.”

“But—If I can force myself to stop loving them, then I could just—And you could just turn it off, eventually, let it fade away and die off, with enough time, and that means—“

“I am not them, Newton. This is not a question of the drift, or of our shifting neurobiology, or even your expertise in those fields.” Hermann lets his hand slide forward, slipping beneath Newt’s ear to cup the side of his head and tangle fingers in Newt’s hair. Newt shivers, like he’s a teenager again, and sharply reminds himself (and the kids) that Hermann is being affectionate, and he damn well better appreciate it. “And you aren’t them either. We’re each other.”

“Neurologically distinct, even if improperly entwined.” Newt has regressed to mumbling, but he knows Hermann will understand anyway. “And we’ll love the kaiju.”

“We’ll remember the kaiju. Our feelings for them may change.” Hermann takes a deep breath, and Newt has the vague sense he should say something comforting.

“But we aren’t them. I’m…not them. Even if I love them, and then I stop loving them, it won’t matter, because I’ll still be me, and I’ll still love you.”

“Well, we are legally married. At least we’re not doing anything improper.” Hermann actually smiles, moving slightly to continue their halting progress towards the bedroom. “Do you think you’ll actually sleep?”

“I don’t think that matters, Hermann.” Newt says, and he does his best to explain exactly what he means as they return to the bed. Newt prefers this other method of communication, the gentle adjustments as he wraps himself around Hermann and Hermann cradles him close. It’s easier, and it doesn’t require words, and most of the time, it can’t be misunderstood or misinterpreted. It simply _is_ , and he exists in it and Hermann exists there with him.

As Hermann’s breathing slows, Newt taps out a gentle beat against Hermann’s shoulder blades, composing lyrics in his fugue for the first time in years. The kids watch with interest, trying to figure out exactly what he’s doing, and he smiles as they probe his memory of chords and charts.

He is _so_ ready for the rest of this experience.


	6. Encore

Hermann leans against the wall as students wander past, their attention directed to the pillar in the center of the room and the groups of people clustered around the edges. A gentle humming, tones shifting at specific intervals to avoid monotony, forms a soft background to cover the sound of people talking, but the acoustics of the room allow small pockets to accommodate groups of musicians, the mess of sound somehow overwhelming while remaining gentle enough to allow an observer to pick out individual pieces if they wish. Hermann admits that this isn’t his area, and his ear isn’t trained enough on its own to determine the various influences and concepts being bandied about in song, but he appreciates the color palette well enough. No longer has Liz Manchester limited herself to kaiju blues and greens, but somehow—it couldn’t be Newton’s influence, because Newton likes the blue and green too, so _who_ —she’d developed an arrangement that utilized golds, and reds, and soft yellows and oranges, while still emphasizing the alien origin of the kaiju themselves.

He hadn’t exactly sought out Doctor Manchester on his own, but after her first exhibition, he’d found himself considering that night with a surprising regularity. Newton’s obsession with the thing had been evident, especially when he put up the poster in his lab, but it wasn’t until Hermann realized that he’d been holding a ten-minute conversation with one of his _own_ students about Liz Manchester’s work that he’d absorbed more than he’d realized from the exhibit. His conversations with Newton had become equally enlightening, at least, when he could get the other man to focus on that memory for more than a few minutes. Then Doctor Manchester’s grant had gone through, and Berkley had expressed a surprising interest in the online aspect of her work, and before he could really track the changes, he and Newton had ended up clustered around a laptop debating the finer points of the HTML interface while Liz laughed over her cocoa.

They weren’t freelancers, not exactly, but they weren’t being paid, and after listening to Liz lecture about interface and the necessity of design, Hermann was hard-pressed to explain exactly why they were trying to help. True, they had several overlapping interests, but Liz was a leader in the humanities, and led discussion groups focused on interaction, interface, memory, and experience. Newton and Hermann didn’t do that. Yet Hermann found himself pulled in all the same, and Newton had begun to spend some time in the art buildings, attending the meetings Liz led.

To her credit, Liz had also attended Hermann’s presentation on quantum cartography, and even if she didn’t exactly ask questions at the level of his other guests, she hadn’t been so crass as to fall asleep or feign pretend interest. She had a genuine appreciation for his work, or as she probably saw it, his art. It wasn’t the easiest dynamic, introducing a self-proclaimed artist to the intricacies of hard science, but in the end, they were all doctors. And that had to count for something.

Hermann hadn’t asked about the details of her next exhibition: he knew all too well what it was to be questioned about the paper before he’d even finished his research. Still, when Newton came home humming after a week of meetings in the art building, and random papers were as likely to have song lyrics as well as chemical formula scribbled on them, Hermann could sense the shift. He’d waited until the weekend, trying to accommodate Newton’s increasingly hectic schedule, then finally cornered the man and asked if he’d started writing music again.

Newton had tried to hedge, for some ridiculous reason, and Hermann had had to wait it out in quiet frigidity until Newton admitted to maybe, just a little, trying out some verses and drawing up chord charts. Hermann had considered this, processing the possibilities, then offered to drive Newton to buy a guitar to use at the apartment, if he so wished.

Whatever Hermann’s feelings were about how Newton handled a guitar, they were minor compared to how he felt about Newton’s sheer gratitude over actually _getting_ a guitar.

With Newton the proud owner of a new electric guitar (and the rig, of course, couldn’t forget accessories), Liz could then rope him into even more intense discussions of possible musical collaborations. She’d discovered the _Supercos_ by then, informed by grateful students of the influence Newton Geiszler had had upon the “underground music scene”, and she’d begun asking him about the use of cellos versus violins, and then Hermann had really decided that he deserved a break and found himself a quiet place with ideal amounts of schnapps.

But somehow, all that meeting and all that shouting and all those discussions had turned into _this_. Newton was actually playing guitar again, in front of people, and even if he kept his sleeves unrolled, Hermann could see he was happy. Even though the actual musical discussion was far over his head, Hermann could appreciate that Liz had managed to get a number of students—not merely upper-crust professors now, but students—wandering through her exhibition, its homey and familiar atmosphere belying its true size. Perhaps she’d leveraged Newton’s reputation as a factor, but from what Hermann had seen, Newton’s achievements hadn’t even been listed on the poster. And Newton is only drawing a small percentage more than the rest of the room, and there are no fawning fans soaking in his ‘atmosphere’.

Hermann is actually happy to be here, and allows himself a smile to reflect that.

As Newton finishes his song, Hermann edges closer, sliding behind the mass of students to stand beside Newton’s guitar case. After a round of excited high-fives, Newton approaches in order to deposit the guitar back in its place, grinning up at Hermann as he buckles the case shut.

“So, how was I?”

“I wasn’t paying attention.” Hermann says honestly, still studying the room. Newton uses his foot to slide the case behind his small performing platform and tries to follow Hermann’s gaze, eventually finding Liz Manchester across the room.

“Is my playing that bad?” Newton teases, and Hermann simply rolls his eyes (a Category 1, according to his inner Newton). “Liz said she wanted me to get a chance to wander, too, so I suppose this is my cue to take a turn around the room.”

Hermann furrows his brows in something between irritation and confusion, and moves to follow Newton as they start walking. “I never thought you’d be using Victorian turns-of-phrase unironically. Is this a new conversational shortcut?”

“I bet you’d approve. I bet you’d love Victorian stuff, wouldn’t you, that’s your jam.” Newton nods, snapping his fingers to form a finger-pistol. “Zounds, my good sir, my smoking jacket is simply unbecoming of a man my height. Quickly, to the tailors!”

“Newton, before you speak, could you at least consider the context of your statements?” Hermann shakes his head in disapproval, lowering his voice. “You do have a _committee_ now, at your beck and call.”

“’I am _not_ a committee!’” Newton says in a near-approximation of Princess Leia’s exasperated tone, making Hermann wince as he simultaneously appreciates the reference and disdains its origin. “C’mon, Hermann, Star Wars is a classic. You’re allowed to like it.”

“ _I_ don’t like it _._ ” Hermann moves forward to take charge of their wayward wanderings, and starts leading Newton closer to a pair of musicians closer to the entrance. Granted their own pocket of space, a cellist and a violinist echo the tones of the music in the main room, though there is added depth and lightness thanks to the acoustic, analog instruments. Newton merely grins as they join the small audience, nudging Hermann’s side.

“You’re such a traditionalist.”

“Shh.” Hermann replies, watching the movement of the bows. “I’m appreciating their talent.”

“Why do you have to make everything so _boring_.” Newton complains, falling silent to let the gentle tones rise and fall around them. Somewhere between improvisation and mere flourish, the violinist adds decorative trills and runs the longer they listen, and Hermann nods once in approval as she rises with a crescendo, then drops back into the muted tones of their atmosphere. Maintaining the silence, he directs them away from the group, and leads Newton through the swarms of people to listen in at the other sound booths.

Another performer, a single woman perched on a stool, presses buttons seemingly at random to produce movement on a screen behind her. In front of the screen, a row of headphones sit on hooks, and various listeners come up to wear the headphones in turn before moving on. Hermann pauses, trying to determine what exactly the screen shows, and is distracted when Newton grabs a pair of headphones and decides to listen in.

Hermann has no choice but to wait, watching Newton close his eyes in transcendental reverie, and takes a step closer to the woman to watch her movements. He’s familiar with the device—a sampler, of sorts, which produces sounds or pre-programmed samples at the push of unmarked buttons—but her speed is irregular and out of sync. Hermann searches for a pattern, comparing her button presses to the waveforms displayed onscreen, then gives up, watching as Newton takes off the headphones again and steps forward.

“Why samples?” Newton asks, surprising the woman. She looks at him, either confused or surprised, then takes out an earbud and glances behind her at the screen.

“Do you want the full proposal I gave to Doctor Manchester, or the short version?”

“Short version, please.” Newton offers a winning smile, earning an eye-roll from Hermann. Fortunately, the woman before them either doesn’t notice or merely ignores the interaction, and nods to Newton.

“It’s easier. And I like my own stuff.”

“So it’s all yours?”

“Mostly. There is a bit of random noise thrown in, but I try to avoid it. Doctor Manchester just told me to ‘keep in line with the conceptual theme’, so I’ve been…experimenting.” She shrugs. “Hasn’t gotten me anywhere yet.”

“That’s the point of experimenting, though.” Newton nods, glancing briefly at Hermann. “You find out where you are before you can start moving forward. Besides, as long as you’ve got a beat, you’ve got something useful.”

“Beats are easy.” The woman mumbles slightly, sighing. “That’s just math. _That_ part I can do.”

“Just math.” Hermann says, unsure if he should be impressed by her nonchalance or offended by the casual nature of her response.

“And with that, we make our exit.” Newton steps forward quickly, redirecting Hermann back towards the center of the room. Hermann shakes his head, walking behind the other man, and finally catches up as Newton makes his way toward the exit of the hall.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“I wasn’t—dude, I’m not ‘extracting’ you. Do you need to be extracted?”

“No.” Hermann studies Newton as they begin to slow, emerging into the night air. Students are still gathered around the building, either coming or going, and the campus is not yet quiet. Still, the pressure of music and sound is somewhat relaxed in the outdoors, and Hermann can feel his tension easing. “Are you extracting yourself?”

“I’m just—“ Newton shrugs, turning the movement into a permanent hunch. “You’re cool with this, right? The music thing?”

“The ‘music thing’.” Hermann closes his eyes for a long moment, trying to avoid his instinctive sarcasm and determine what Newton’s _truly_ asking. “I came with you to buy the guitar. I would think it’s safe to say I’m fine with ‘it’.”

“Yeah, but sometimes you do things just because you think that’s what it means to be nice. Which, don’t get me wrong, that’s great, but if it’s part of a grand strategy to make me feel better, then…then I just feel worse when I realize, you know?”

“There’s nothing to realize, Newton, I’m _fine_. It makes me happy to see you happy.” Hermann is slightly shocked by his own frankness, but it’s best for both of them. “And I’m glad you got involved with Doctor Manchester.”

“Even though it forces you to stand in a little room with undergrad music students and listen to their ‘experiments’?”

“I was in that room through choice, Newton. Give me more credit, please.”

Newton looks at him carefully, the light from sidewalk lights reflecting in his glasses. “It’s hard to do that sometimes, Hermann. I’m the only person who knows exactly how much credit you deserve.”

Hermann actually scowls at that, looking away sharply to study the art buildings across the walkway. A tense silence stretches between them, and Hermann hears Newton draw in a breath before he speaks.

“I started writing music again. Rock music. Not the tonal things and chord maps for this place, not for Liz, but just…because. _Supercos_ music.”

“I know.” Hermann rubs his thumb along the inside of his cane. He couldn’t really miss the chord charts scattered across the apartment, and it was hard to ignore Newton’s humming.

“I don’t know what to do with it, and it’s not like I have a producer or anything or anyone who I could trust to help, but I…like it. Like when I started. And since I’ve been practicing, it’s helped, I think, and—“

“Newton, is there a point?” It comes out sharper than Hermann intends, but he looks back to Newton to try and soften the impact. He’s surprised to find Newton even more tightly compressed, his hunch a definite precursor to curling up in the fetal position.

Even now, Newton’s fragility can still startle him.

“I just. I thought you should know. In case.” Newton swallows, trying to relax. “I don’t know. In case. In case it got out of control. Or I started hyperfixating. Or if it triggers some kind of neural memory that works like the fugue does, with Bach, and the kids, or—“

“I’m not going to judge you for your music, Newton.” Hermann likes saying the man’s name. It seems to center both of them. “And even if I did, you’re _bigger_ than that. You don’t need my approval to do the things you love. You never have. That’s what _defines_ you. So you better write some damn good songs, because otherwise all this emotional distress will be for naught.”

“But things are different now. You know. With my…” Newton gestures between them, standing straighter to meet Hermann’s gaze. “With us. And if you hate listening to it, then I don’t know—“

“I will listen to every thing you write, Newton, even if it’s atonal and arrhythmic and consists merely of you warbling off-key.” Hermann squares his shoulders, forcing down a flash of memory to remind himself that he’s not the one who stood on stages and absolutely _killed_ his own lyrics. “I remember what it was like too, you know. I can’t blame you for wanting to recapture it. And the fact remains that this is a think you _like to do_. I will listen.”

“You’ve _got_ to stop cutting me off like that, dude.” Newton flashes a quick smile, reaching up to run a hand through his already perfectly-messy hair.

“Stop vocalizing incoherent streams of thought, and I might.” Hermann retorts.

“So you’re okay with me practicing at the apartment.”

“We can set ground rules for that.” Hermann wrinkles his nose, but nods once. “And since you mention it, if you want my _professional_ opinion: your hyperfixation issues are not a product of recent events. I hope you know that.”

“Yeah, but. You know. If I don’t notice, then I need correction. I don’t know if my safeguards for that sort of thing are the same.”

“Stop _worrying_ , Newton.” Hermann is tempted to remind him that _that’s my job, remember, you practically assigned me that role when you left your final recording addressed to me and decided to drift in our_ shared laboratory, Newton Geiszler, _remember that?,_ but decides that discretion is the better part of valor in this case. “Don’t you have another set to play tonight, anyway? We should get back before Doctor Manchester assumes you’ve fled in horror.”

“She’ll just blame you, dude.” Newton’s grin is more permanent now, and his posture is definitely more relaxed as he heads back into the building. Hermann follows again, as is his wont, and watches as Newton reclaims his spot, takes his guitar, and joins the cacophony of sound. Hermann can’t always understand this: the chaos, the uncertainty, the confusion, the masses of people who might not ever understand the purpose of _this_. He has enough of Newton’s insight to appreciate it, sure, and he even feels distinct flashes of affection from time to time. But at the heart of it, he knows that it isn’t Newton or even the kaiju that have pulled him here tonight.

He is here because he wants to be.

Hermann settles into a spot behind the stage and watches Newton play, the gentle strumming of the guitar standing at odds sometimes with Newton’s concentrated intensity, and Hermann offers no corrections as Newton pauses to converse with passing undergrads. At some point, Liz Manchester appears with a stool, and Hermann thanks her gratefully before returning his attention to Newton. He knows Liz is studying them still—if she were so interested, she could make a study of them for the rest of their natural lives, and then continue the study through a biographical survey after they’d died—but he isn’t worried by the scrutiny any longer. He and Newton have grown to trust her, somehow. And even if they didn’t, even if Liz was simply another undergraduate or a visiting professor or even a talent scout, Hermann wouldn’t change anything.

He and Newton are here because of the things they love, and the things that make them happy. And Hermann wouldn’t give that up for anything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less editing on this one than I'd like, but I had it written and wanted to finish off the piece. Thank you all so much for reading, and please--if there are any questions or concerns, let me know.


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